The Boring and Mundane
by Swirling Dreams
Summary: The best times between John and Sherlock don't happen in the episodes. We never see them–they're much too dull. But sometimes, it's exactly what both of them want. (Series of one-shots, sometimes T rated sexy times, sometimes platonic friends).
1. The Stars in Your Eyes

After picking up his and Sherlock's favorite cereal from the store, John headed home. As usual. And as usual, Sherlock was up to some sort of experiment. Except this one was different. Much different than usual.

This one was pleasant.

When John opened the door to their flat, he was immediately greeted by the beauty of the night sky. Except it wasn't the real night sky, but instead, hundreds, perhaps thousands, of glow-in-the-dark stars. Some of them were as big as his palm, others as tiny as his fingerprints. And they were everywhere–they covered the floors as well as the ceiling and walls, and he even saw some on the surfaces of the furniture.

_Have we been invaded by martians or something?_

"Sherlock?" John called out into the galaxy that had blown through their flat. He went over to the kitchen and left their cereal on the counter. "Sherlock!" He called a bit louder this time.

"What is it, John? I'm right here." John nearly jumped out of his skin, realizing that Sherlock had been sitting in his chair the whole time. "Your voice indicates that you're distressed."

"This." John gestured wildly around the room. "What's with the stars, Sherlock?"

"Lestrade."

"Lestrade gave you glowing stars?"

"No, of course not. It's just a case."

"With…stars." John said slowly.

Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh. "Why are you so transfixed by the stars? I assume that I have not misplaced a constellation or anything, have I?"

"I thought you didn't care about that stuff."

"On the contrary, I believe stars movements are important for navigation. Which has the potential to be very helpful when being a consultant for the police. But I am actually testing how long these stars can hold light after being under certain conditions. Sunlight, artificial light, indirect light from a window, the position of the stars in the room, et cetera."

"Oh. Wow. I'm…well, I'm impressed." He walked over to the window, his back facing Sherlock.

"Why? Usually you are disgusted with my experiments."

"This isn't like finding a severed head in the fridge, Sherlock. This is…beautiful. I had these things as a kid. I used to be afraid of the dark, and my parents put up these things to help me fall asleep. They told me that the stars would guide me through my room if I ever needed to get out." He picked up one of the stars resting on the couch and ran his thumb across it.

"Why would you need to get out?"

"I dunno. I was just a dumb kid. I was scared of ridiculous things, like most people. You can't tell me you weren't afraid of something stupid."

"Thunderstorms."

"Really? Wow. I didn't picture you as the type."

"I'd really rather not talk about it." Sherlock picked up his violin and began to play, it sounded like Debussy, but John wasn't exactly an expert. But he was always enchanted by Sherlock's violin. He found it shocking that this man could be so wonderful in such unconventional ways, in ways that people couldn't be bothered to look for. It wasn't until the song was over that John realized he had been staring.

"So you like them?" Sherlock asked quietly.

John gave a very soft smile. "Yes, I do actually. It makes me feel like I'm walking through some of the best parts of my childhood. This is stupid, but I kept those stars on my ceiling until I was 17. I used to look up at them and think how sad it was that I might be the only person with something so beautiful in my room. That was just for me." He gave a tense cough, realizing that he was becoming too sentimental. He wasn't ready to open up yet. Not to Sherlock.

"Are you still afraid of the dark?"

"Not really anymore. But I think everybody is. I think it's one of those things that binds humanity together."

"That's very insightful, John. And a fascinating idea."

Not knowing whether or not to take the latter as a compliment or not, John found that he was not hungry, but exhausted. "Well, I think I'm going to go to bed."

Sherlock nodded. "Good night, John. Sleep well." With his back to him as he walked away, he didn't see it, but Sherlock was staring at him with a small, and yet very distinct, smile.

And then he got an idea.

"John?" He called.

He appeared a few moments later. Loyal as ever. "Yes?"

"I was thinking–"

"Oh no…" John gave a huge sigh, actually looking worried.

"I thought I would sleep out here, under the stars. Would you care to join me?" Sherlock continued, as though he hadn't heard John's comment.

"Oh. That would be lovely actually. I would like that very much."

Sherlock gave him the sly, one sided smile that he knew made John's breath shaky.

"I would too."


	2. Gray or Blue

Yes, I am aware of the Jaymay song, (hence the chapter title), and although I did gather a bit of inspiration from the song, I actually came up with the idea before hand, and then I thought, "Whoa, isn't there a Jaymay song about this?" So yeah. Thank you to those who reviewed, and to all of the rest who put this on their story alert or favorite list.

Oh, and thank you so much for all of those who reviewed or favorited, or are following my story.

**Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. If they did, I would be as brilliant in real life as Sherlock is.**

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><p>John never could decide on the color of Sherlock's eyes, and he often wondered what his birth certificate said about it. They were something between a light stone grey and an even lighter ice blue.<p>

How many times had he looked into those eyes? And yet still he didn't know. But really, he hardly ever was able to get close enough to have a good, deep look. And even when he managed to do just that, they seemed to change color the instant he had made up his mind–never a huge change, but it was enough for the color to no longer be what he had originally thought. Sometimes they even looked green.

The thing about getting too close to Sherlock–to finally solve the mystery of that impossible man's iridescent eyes–was that his mind wandered to other parts. Like his flawless marble skin. And his mouth. The full lips that John wanted so desperately to press against his own. He wanted to know how they tasted.

That was it. Most definitely. This must end.

John decided that he would just settle for 'blue-grey.'

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><p>Reviews will make John happy.<p> 


	3. The Angel Snow White

Alright. So, for those of you who were sad because they didn't get a chapter last night (in my fantasy you all were begging for me to write), I actually posted a separate one shot, called "Parachute." You guys should check it out.

Song I listened to while I wrote it: "Flipped Suite" .com/watch?v=ajlVtS83G8c&feature=youtube_gdata_player

**Disclaimer: I don't own their characters, but through the amazing world of writing and imagination, I do own their bodies. ;)**

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><p>"Heavy snowfall tonight and tomorrow morning. That should slow up the traffic so everybody–"<p>

Sherlock clicked off the telly, and without bothering to cast a glance around the room, called, "John!"

"Yes, Sherlock?" John's voice came from a few feet behind him and to his right.

"We're going out."

"I suppose I don't have a choice."

"Well, why would you not want to?"

"Never mind." He heard him get up, and before he could say anything, Sherlock answered him.

"Your coat's in your room. In the left-most corner. You left it there after…well. Yesterday." Sherlock gave a very smug grin.

John came up behind him and placed his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, leaning down to give his neck a slow kiss. John could hear Sherlock's smile in the husky laugh he let escape.

"Why don't you get it for me?"

"But I'm sitting down comfortably. It's not very logical."

"But you're not doing anything."

"Neither are you."

"Actually, my mind is pretty occupied thinking about what I want to do with you right now. But, since you wanna go out, I guess those plans will have to be put on hold."

Sherlock smiled at the notion of repeating yesterday. "You could still get your own coat." And then John's mouth, and his warm face, and his hands, were no longer on him. It made him a little remorseful that he had told him to go get his coat. But, he told himself, even if he had gotten it, he still would've been away from John. So it was still the same outcome. And it was perfectly logical. What wasn't logical was the fact that it had only been 10 seconds and Sherlock was already missing him.

"You know, someday, you will get my coat. Or my phone, out of the pocket of the pants I'm wearing."

"Quite honestly John, I wouldn't mind the latter option."

"So, you haven't told me why we're out here."

"You haven't asked until now."

"Well, why then? It was awfully sudden."

"The weather forecast showed heavy snow tonight and tomorrow morning."

"So you want us to get caught in a snowstorm. Very romantic." John said teasingly.

Sherlock smiled to himself at the idea. "Not quite. I thought we should get a walk and some fresh air in before the weather becomes decidedly unbearable."

"Makes sense."

After a few minutes of silence, John started gasping.

"John. What's wrong?"

"Damn leg. I know it's all in my head but–"

"Oh John, don't be an idiot. It doesn't stop it from hurting." Sherlock turned around, looking for a place for John to sit. They both walked over to a bench and for the first time since they had started talking, John was able to take in the setting. January. Winter. The trees had turned black and slick from the snow that seemed to constantly be falling, even if they were mere flurries. The bark's coal like color only served to make the brown slush on the sides of the pavement look uglier. It felt like the entire street was begging for this fresh wave of snow. So that it could be beautiful again–glittering and heavenly instead of brown and soggy.

John couldn't help but feel ashamed. He knew the wound wasn't real, he'd never been injured in his leg; and he had lost count of how many times he had heard someone say something along the lines of, "It's just in your head," or, "It's the power of suggestion, John. Fight it."

But Sherlock didn't do that. Sherlock never questioned that the pain he was experiencing was real–for which John was very grateful.

Soft, white snowflakes began to fall, and his mind was pulled away from the thoughts of his pain, and back to the bench he was sitting on, and the street he was looking at, but most importantly, the amazing man next to him. He took a moment to look over at Sherlock. He wanted to run his hands through that mane of ebony curls. He wanted to see it disheveled, like it had been yesterday. And his skin was so fair and light, like ice. It made him want to put his arms around him, just to make sure that he was warm enough.

And the snowflakes. Did snowflakes do that to other people? To normal people? They were falling into Sherlock's hair and eyelashes, and it made him look heavenly. Did snowflakes make all people look as like angels? And his lips, Sherlock often bit them when he was thinking, and it was beginning to take its toll, as they were becoming slightly red.

Suddenly an idea popped into John's head and he couldn't help but smile. A real smile, one that he felt around his eyes as well as on his lips. Sherlock caught John's gaze, but neither looked away.

"What are you smiling at?"

"Oh, nothing. I just got a funny idea is all." He looked away playfully and stole a glance back. He knew that he would tell him, but he wanted to prolong the agony a little. "Oh just, 'skin as white as snow, hair as black as ebony…'" Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "You put on some red lipstick and I might accidentally call you 'Snow White.'"

"No, John. It's not going to happen."

"The lipstick or the nickname?"

"Neither."

"Aw." He pretended to moan in sadness.

Sherlock looked away for a moment and put his hands together. He turned back to John, with a slightly uncomfortable expression gracing his features.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Am I physically appealing?"

John snorted, and then saw Sherlock's expression. "Oh you're being serious."

"I'm always serious."

"Um…well…when you say 'physically appealing' do you mean your face or–"

"Okay. So that's a no." Sherlock seemed resigned, but there was now a slight frown that had not been present before.

"Sherlock–"

"No. I don't really place much importance on the whole idea."

"Sherlock!" John leaned over to take Sherlock's hand, and placed his right hand on Sherlock's left cheek, forcing him to make eye contact.

"I think you are the most beautiful person I've ever known. Not just _seen_, but known. You're not just these beautiful black curls and piercing eyes. You're not just this amazing body that I think the Greeks must've sculpted it's so bloody perfect. You're the smartest and most aggravatingly wonderful man I've ever known. I can't stand to be away from you, and I worry about you constantly. You've let me into your soul, and…it's the most beautiful thing I've ever been allowed to be a part of."

Sherlock didn't say anything. But his cheeks did grow redder, and he bit his lip.

He looked adorable. _Like an angel,_ John thought to himself.

"But yes, you are very physically appealing…" He paused. "…Snow White." John smirked at the look he got.

"Okay, if you're well enough to deliver sentiments and make jokes like that, you can walk."

"Oh come on."

"Come on then." Sherlock got up and started walking away. John looked at the ground and gave a heavy sigh. And then he was back, standing in front of him, his hand extended.

"But despite the joke…thank you for what you said, John."

"I have never said truer words in my life. You're welcome, Sherlock."

And he curled his hand around Sherlock's, and stood.


	4. Tongue in Citrus

This is something I've been tossing around since the beginning of the week. Although it has made me think about other characters and how they smell (eventually I will write about Sherlock's smell), John was the first that occurred to me. If anyone wants to debate the idea, be my guest.

Enjoy, because the rating definitely goes up a little here. ;)

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><p>Sherlock hated cologne. And perfume for that matter. He found it all fascinating, certainly–what one wished to smell like could only serve to further reflect not only one's personality, but also their insecurities–but he still hated it. He hated how everyone who wore it only seemed to reek of conformity (ironic considering that they were all trying to set themselves apart), of constantly trying to be perfect and smell "nice." And the fact that it obviously didn't work made it quite clear to him that they were all idiots.<p>

But John was different. John never wore cologne or perfume, and it was only on the days that he spent the evening with one of his girlfriends that he smelled any different than usual. Sherlock hated those nights that John would come home smelling like fake watermelon, pungent roses, or an unnatural sweaty musk that smelled like a perfume department doubling as a gym. It made perfect sense for John not to wear any as he had a perfectly lovely scent that didn't bother Sherlock in the least. He didn't know quite what it was, but it was very familiar.

So it was very unusual for John to actually wear any, and that was how Sherlock knew that something was occupying John's usually vacant and simple mind. They sat down for dinner (at John's request) one night and Sherlock could smell something new, something different. Something **definitely not** John.

"Why are you wearing cologne, John?"

"Why, too much?"

"Any amount is too much, and don't answer my question with another question."

"Well, can't you just know why I am? Can't you just 'deduce' it?" He snapped back.

"I would say you have a new potential girlfriend, but if that was true you wouldn't have insisted on having dinner with me."

"Very good." He took a bite without looking at him. Sherlock waited for John to say something, but he just continued to eat. John finally noticed that Sherlock was staring at him.

"What?" He mumbled, his mouth half full of food.

"Are you not going to tell me the reason for the cologne?"

John gave a heavy sigh and leaned forward, closing his eyes and pinching his forehead.

"I want you." He said tentatively. He began to talk very fast. "People confuse us for a couple all the time but recently I…I've started to want it to be true. And I do, and I know that you might not want–"

"Yes."

John looked up, surprised. "What?"

"You're asking me out. I'm saying yes." And he smiled, a flirtatious one-sided smile that made John sweat.

"Really?"

"On one condition." Sherlock said very seriously. *Uh oh*, John thought. Sherlock leaned forward with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "You go straight to the shower and wash that odor off your body."

John breathed out a sigh of relief and chuckled, "I think that can be arranged."

And it was. He went immediately to the shower and left Sherlock there, confused and yet very excited. Confused because he didn't know what was going to happen after John got out–what would they do? He honestly had no idea, and that excited him.

At least he had figured out why John had put on the stuff in the first place. He had obviously been nervous about asking Sherlock out, and as a consequence had decided to put more effort into it than he had with his other dates, a fact that gave Sherlock a distinct feeling of importance.

He started pacing. Waiting for John. Eager to find out what would unfold. Thinking. Pacing. But it didn't help. So he went and changed into a clean shirt just so that he would have something to do.

He came out and John still wasn't out. What was taking the man so damn long? He checked the clock and realized it had only been 10 minutes. It felt like it had been at least twice that time. He started pacing again, and after nearly slipping on the floor, stripped his socks off.

Five minutes.

So a total of 15 minutes. Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned against the wall, finally sinking to the floor, his knees slightly bent to brace himself.

And then he felt him. He opened his eyes to see John, standing above him. He slowly sank to his knees, so that he was straddling Sherlock. His hands found Sherlock's face. His deep blue eyes met Sherlock's for a few seconds, and then he was pulling him closer and closer, until their lips touched.

They were both shocked, and for the same reasons as well: at John's boldness of pursuing a make out session so soon, and at the fact that they were both thoroughly enjoying it. Sherlock's hands wrapped around John's waist, and John deepened the kiss by letting his tongue slip in. Sherlock reacted almost violently to the sensation, tightening his grip on John's waist as well as pulling him in closer. John couldn't help but smile at his reaction, knowing that this was obviously an area that he would have complete dominance over Sherlock in.

When they broke apart, Sherlock buried his face into the doctor's neck, breathing him in. He gave him a light kiss and then it hit him.

"Oranges." He whispered.

"Hm?" John murmured, his voice thick with contentment. One of Sherlock's hands cupped John's face, while the other found its way under his jumper to rest in the small of his back.

"You smell like oranges." It was obvious that John was confused as to how he should take the comment.

"Is that bad?"

"No." Sherlock smiled, and then tilted his head back a little and let out a hearty laugh. "You smell wonderful."

"Mmmm." John moaned, both from the satisfaction of the knowledge that Sherlock thought he smelled nice, and from the fact that Sherlock was now tracing small circles languidly along his back.

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Don't ever wear cologne again."

"Oh, I promise." And with that, he wound his fingers into Sherlock's hair and kissed him again. Sherlock melted into John, taking in a deep breath at the same time, allowing the intoxicating oranges that radiated from John's skin to soak into every fiber of his being. He never wanted to stop smelling it. And he never wanted John to be so far away that he had to.

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><p>It's so true. Everybody seems to have a particular scent. And just to make sure there's no confusion over that last sentence, Sherlock loves the smell because it's how <strong>John specifically<strong> smells. He doesn't want John to ever be far away because it's John, not because he's addicted to oranges. Make sense?

(But who doesn't love intoxicating oranges?)

I've got a few more ideas right now, but if anyone would like to review with an idea, I'm open to suggestions.

And besides, reviews make me very happy.


	5. We Would Be Warm Below the Storm

Imagine the rapidity of Florence + the Machine's "No Light, No Light" for the beginning and anxiety, and then fade into something, well. Soft. And nice. You'll recognize the song, but you'll have to use your imagination to hear a soft acoustic version, as I have yet to hear one close to it on YouTube. Imagine it to the tempo and cadence of "Hey Jude."

I know the format might be a little confusing, but John is the only one "speaking" to Sherlock in the bed scene. You'll figure it out.

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><p><strong>John. Come home immediately. - SH<strong>

John's eyebrows furrowed; Sherlock was pushy, no doubt about that, but there was something odd about this. John knew urgency when he heard it, and he heard it in Sherlock's text.

**OK. I'm at the store. I just have a few more things.**

He put it back in his pocket and went back to looking for his crisps. Literally two seconds later his pocket pinged again.

**Leave the bloody shopping. Come home *now.* - SH**

John didn't even think twice. He left his basket in the middle of the aisle and ran out of the store and into the rain. What had been dark and foreboding skies when he entered the store were now horrendous buckets of rain, but since he didn't have any food to carry, he decided to walk. (He knew that it would take longer to try and get a cab, seeing as everyone else was trying to, and even if he managed to get one the rain would just delay his arrival even more). He could always just change clothes when he got home. A flash of lightning lit up the street and some of the passersby ran for cover, but John kept up his pace. It seemed that after being a soldier, thunder and lightning ceased to make him uneasy.

_Finally_, he thought to himself upon reaching the door. He sprinted up the stairs and threw open the door to their flat. He half expected to find Sherlock holding a gun on someone, but it was dark, none of the lights were on, and although he didn't see Sherlock, he heard the violin playing rapidly, almost as if it were anxious.

"Sherlock?" He yelled. When he received no answer, he followed sound of the violin. It was coming from John's room, and he found Sherlock sitting cross legged on his bed, looking like a monk with his straight back and closed eyes. He was playing something John couldn't quite place, but it was hurried and full of tension–like a soundtrack for a chase sequence–and his face was contorted in fear and worry. Sherlock didn't get **scared**.

"Sherlock!" John shouted over the music and crack of thunder. "What's wrong?"

Without opening his eyes or stopping his music he answered, "The storm. Lightning. Thunder. It's the one thing I never grew out of being scared of." His fingers were growing sore from the intensity of his playing. Sherlock answered the question John was thinking to himself. "I'm in here because it's farthest from the windows. Meaning I can't see the lightning flash. And it smells like you. It's slightly comforting. Not as much as I had hoped. That's why I called you."

John was touched. "Why are–"

"Power's off." He answered immediately.

"Okay, Sherlock, put the violin down."

"If I play, I can't hear the thunder." He sounded desperate, like he was imploring John to see reason. John gave a heavy sigh and peeled off his soaked jacket, socks, and shoes. He hesitated, questioning whether or not he should strip down any further in front of Sherlock (even if they had kissed, they hadn't seen each other naked), but then got an idea, and took off his jumper and pants as well (as they were as soaked as the others). He put on a dry pair of pants (but decided against putting on another shirt), crawled onto the bed and sat behind Sherlock, who still continued to play, his knuckles white from gripping the bow so tightly.

He inched closer. And then he was close enough, so he rested his chin on Sherlock's right shoulder (as the violin was resting on the left one) and wrapped his arms around the man's torso, breathing deeply and calmly.

_Should I? Yes. Definitely. The worst that can happen is he'll insult me and laugh, and that would be better than this._

When Sherlock felt John's arms encircle him he didn't lower the violin, but he stopped playing, and John took the opening.

_"I'd like to be."_ John sang, so softly that had he not been right next to his ear, Sherlock wouldn't have heard. _"Under the sea. In an octopus' garden. In the shade."_ He waited, took in a deep breath and started again.

_"He'd let us in. Knows where we've been. In his octopus' garden. In the shade."_

He kissed Sherlock's shoulder. _"I'd ask my friends to come and see-ee."_ He slid on the word "see," and gave a low, throaty chuckle that made Sherlock's stomach feel like it had been invaded by butterflies.

And then Sherlock's violin was playing again, matching the background notes and melody of the song. John's heart beat a little faster from the success, and he was so close that Sherlock felt it reverberate through his own chest.

_"We would be warm below the storm. In our little hideaway beneath the waves."_ Sherlock could hear the rain pound on their roof, and the thunder still cracked and roared. _"Resting our head on the sea bed, in an octopus' garden near a cave."_ But it didn't seem as threatening anymore. In fact, he found it a bit of nuisance–he didn't want **anything** to obscure John's voice.

_"We would sing and dance around, because we know we can't be found."_ John smiled, letting one of his hands move from around Sherlock's stomach to his chest, resting it directly above his heart.

_"We would be so happy you and me. No one there to tell us what to do."_ He could hear the smile in John's voice at the idea, and he smiled too for the same reason.

It was coming to an end. John was drawing out the song as much as he could, but it had to finish sometime.

_"I'd like to be, under the sea."_ Sherlock played a few more notes. _"In an octopus' garden."_ He held out "garden," his voice growing quieter the longer he did so. Sherlock knew what was coming, the next and last lyric, and he cleared his mind so that he could always remember hearing John say it to him. To him, and only him.

_"With you."_ Sherlock had never noticed the possible romantic implications of the song before. Two people having a retreat together, enjoying the beauty of the sea and the world in general, doing whatever they wanted, free of judgement, while the world above ached and fought. It was beautiful. And he knew John had meant it all.

And he wasn't scared of the storm anymore. He could barely hear it now.

Sherlock let the violin and its bow fall from his chin and onto the bed, and in that second he and John had the exact same thought: he turned his head to the left and John's arms wrapped around Sherlock's back and neck and their lips didn't meet or crash into each other. They merely locked into place.

Sherlock wanted to thank him for everything, for the song, for putting up with him, for coming when he called, for making him feel human, for his soft lips…

They broke apart and Sherlock tried. "John," he whispered, "thank–"

But John just put his finger on Sherlock's lips, stroking his face with such tenderness that Sherlock felt weak in the knees despite the fact that he was sitting on John's bed. "Shhhh…" He hushed. And they continued just as they had before.

It didn't cure Sherlock of his fear of lightning and thunderstorms, but both of them actually preferred it that way.

After all, there were plenty of Beatles songs to be sung.

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><p>John was the only one singing. Sherlock just occasionally played his violin. And I know I skipped some lyrics, but I didn't want it to drag, you know?<p>

How many reviews I get is directly proportional to how soon you will get another chapter. But I hope you're willing to just because you want to. :)


	6. The Road Leads Back to You

HANNAHCAKES REVIEWED MY STORY! :D LIKE, MULTIPLE CHAPTERS! MY FANFICTION IDOL!  
>(dies and ascends to heaven)<br>I had a really bad day (see blog for details, I'm just ranting and swearing every which way), and I was so angry all day and so I went and finished (and published) "The Sky Painted with his Blood."  
>And then I checked my email and I was like, HOLY SHIT HANNAHCAKES READ MY LOWLY SLASH! I can die happy.<br>Bam! 99% feeling better. She also pointed out that I was using the wrong terms, which is so silly because I watch British *cinema all the time.* I guess I was just afraid to use it wrong/it just slipped my mind. The irony of my writing in a Beatles song and then proceeding to say "pants." I seriously laughed when I read her review correcting me. Silly me!  
>So I just had to write something else today and submit it. Something happy. Something nice.<br>And thank you so so much to everyone's thoughtful reviews. As I usually say, they are directly proportional to how soon you get a chapter, because honestly, what's the point of posting if I don't think anyone's liking it enough to tell me it's good or where there are mistakes?  
>So thank you. I know I haven't replied to everyone, but seriously, a thousand times thank you. And if any of you have any requests, as always, I am open.<p>

Yeah. They're together. But insecurities and such always make us think that the other isn't enjoying it as much as we are. But they are. Equally enjoying it. Oh, and while you're listening to it, go to youtube now, and listen to "Georgia on my Mind," Ray Charles. But He is We's "All About Us," inspired this. But the song is "Georgia on my Mind."

Enjoy.

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><p>"Sorry?"<p>

"I would like to teach you how to dance." He repeated.

John's eyes felt huge, _Sherlock? Dance? What?_

"You. Know how to dance?" He was skeptical.

"Yes. My mother made Mycroft and I take lessons."

John couldn't help but smile at the image of a little Mycroft being forced by his mother to dance.

"What kind of dancing?"

"Ballroom of course." John couldn't hold back the laughter and snorted. Sherlock frowned at John's reaction. "You doubt me."

"I actually don't know."

"Then let me show you."

"Oh Sherlock…I really can't dance. It's a cliché, I know, but seriously. Can't do it. I don't have an ounce of grace in my body." John shook his head at the memories of his last dance–he was probably 16 years old and he had ended up tripping over his date's feet and ripping his suit. He shuddered–he'd had to pay his father back for the suit. He didn't exactly have fond memories of dancing.

"I wouldn't say that, John." He smiled suggestively and John blushed. "On the contrary, I believe that you have an appreciable amount of grace." They both bit their lips–John out of bashfulness and Sherlock out of sexual hunger.

Sherlock leapt to his feet and ran over to the seemingly unorganized stack of papers, maps, and other rubbish that cluttered his desk, and opened one of the cabinets, grabbing an object that John couldn't identify. He then ran over to the kitchen and grabbed John's laptop, sliding in the object that John could now see was a CD. With a few clicks of the mouse, music began to drift from the computer and Sherlock walked back over to John, extending his hand.

"Whaddya say?" John smiled. It was obviously rehearsed. He was extremely reluctant–actually, he had absolutely **no** desire to–but he knew that it would just turn out worse for him if he argued and tried to protest. Sherlock would get him up eventually, and so he took his hand and Sherlock pulled him to his feet.

Sherlock placed John's right hand in his left and something occurred to John.

"Wait, who's the girl in this?" Sherlock didn't answer, instead he just gave John a smile that was the personification of a laugh, and put his arm on John's waist. _I guess me_, John thought bitterly.

"Now. Just follow the music. It's really not that hard. Even you should catch on easily enough." John glared at him. "Look, we're not even doing any actual dance. We're just slow dancing this first time."

"First time?" As in, there would be more?

"Yes. I think the difficulty–or the simplicity really, will be perfect for you."

He ignored Sherlock's comment and concentrated on the song. "Is this…"

"Ray Charles. _Georgia on my Mind_. It's a slow song. And it's on repeat, so don't worry about the music stopping anytime soon." Sherlock was already shifting his feet, and John actually tried. He didn't even think about it, he found that he just wanted to do it for Sherlock.

And lo and behold, it was working. He and Sherlock were moving in perfect time with one another, and as the song wore on, and started over again and again, Sherlock's arm moved from resting on John's hip to wrapping around his back, and John's left hand on Sherlock's shoulder wound around his neck. And the song would start over again, and they would move closer, eventually moving their arms from the regular positions, with John's arms around Sherlock's neck and Sherlock's arms around John's back.

John didn't know if they could really call this dancing. They were really just swaying in each other's arms to beautiful music. But he was warm, and covered in Sherlock, and this was so perfect. It was nice to move in sync with Sherlock. And little did John know that Sherlock was enjoying it as much as him, feeling content that John was in **his** arms, that he could protect him. He could protect his soldier.

"_Other arms reach out to me, other eyes smile tenderly. Still in peaceful dreams I see. The road, leads back to you."_

Sherlock was thankful. How many women had John dated? How many attractive women? And yet John still chose to live with **him**.

Both of them knew that their own peaceful dreams would always include the other.

"John." Sherlock whispered.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"I just…enjoy saying your name. But I want you to know that I am filled with gratitude that you have chosen me. And that often my best dreams include you."

John smiled. "I feel the same way. Am I interesting in your dreams?" He joked.

"Oh no. You're as dull as you are in real life." He pulled away a few inches so that he could kiss John, and John's hands combed through Sherlock's hair as he did. "But if you weren't, you wouldn't be my John."

"Thank you for teaching me how to dance, Sherlock."

"The pleasure is all mine." Except it wasn't.

Not really.

And they knew it.

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><p>Thank you everyone for the support. I am enjoying writing this so much. Review please. :)<p> 


	7. But I Can Save You

**Hey guys, I've been editing this old chapter for the past few days for _A Guide to Deduction's Save Undershaw_ book project. I hope you guys don't mind getting the email alert, but I do promise to have a new chapter up tomorrow. Thanks! I sincerely believe that this has greatly improved.**

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><p>John slammed the door, an unusual thing for him considering how much he hated the sound and how it seemed to echo through the entire flat.<p>

"Another row with a machine?" Sherlock asked, not looking up from the article he was writing ("Telling Time with Moisture's Effect on Wood") for his website on John's laptop.

John gave a heavy and irritated sigh. "No. Roll up your sleeves."

Sherlock only furrowed his eyebrows as he contemplated how to write a particular sentence so that even an idiot would understand it–barely processing John's words.

When he didn't respond, John strode over to the table he was sitting at and angrily grabbed Sherlock's left wrist, ripping up the cuffs of his shirt to reveal his pale forearms. He snarled at the sight of the thin white lines that peppered the man's skin.

"Sherlock Holmes." He said slowly. "If I see any more scars appear, I _will_ kill you." He growled, his eyes deliberately focusing on the table instead of Sherlock's blank expression. Sherlock continued to stare at him, waiting for an explanation, but none was offered.

"What happened at the clinic?" He said finally. It was obvious: something must've happened at work to make John so upset. But as to why he was transferring the rage to him, Sherlock didn't know.

"A kid. A bloody kid, Sherlock!" He shouted. "Came to the clinic cause she was too ashamed to go to a hospital. Couldn't be more than 18, roped into doing crack by her 'friends.' She…" John paused, and then let out a sigh, like he knew he was losing a battle. "I was an army doctor and I've never seen anyone with so many scars. She's dying of infection. Injected it, inhaled it, eaten it. She…she didn't know that it would get this far. She didn't think it was a big deal." He bit his lip and closed his eyes, and the image of the dying young girl that had appeared in his office today came to him again.

Sherlock's voice brought him back to reality. "Yelling at me won't save this girl's life, John. Be reasonable." He said in that most annoying, condescending, soulless way that only Sherlock could achieve, and John lost his tempter.

"Dammit, Sherlock! Don't you think I know that?" He roared, dropping Sherlock's arm and raking his hands through his hair as he paced the room. "Do you seriously think that if there was _anything _I could do to help her, that I would be here chatting with _you_?" The venom in that last word made Sherlock flinch. It hurt him to see John so angry. Sherlock was very aware of how much John meant to him, he knew that he couldn't stand living without him, and he found that he actually cared very much about John's opinion of him.

This frightened him a little.

But it didn't make any sense–Sherlock couldn't see why John was here, lecturing him about a dying girl, like it was _Sherlock's_ fault.

And then it hit him. _Oh, of course,_ Sherlock thought. _John feels powerless and so he's reacting as any confused and scared simple-minded being in an overwhelming situation would: by blaming it on someone else._ Sherlock scoffed._ How boring and idiotic._

"Obviously being here is not going to help." He reiterated. "And blaming me is simply primitive and childish." He shrugged off John's rage and went back to his article.

John stood dumbfounded, staring at Sherlock.

"You think…" He paused, the fury so overwhelming that he couldn't say the sentence all together. "I'm here because…I need someone to blame?"

Sherlock sighed, sounding bored. "Well, what other reason could there possibly be?"

Not a second later, he felt John grab both of his wrists, forcing him to look into his dark blue eyes. Sherlock saw anger, sadness, and…desperation.

"Sherlock," John whispered with such sorrow that Sherlock thought he might cry, "I'm here because of you, and your drug use. The nicotine patches I can handle, the occasional cigarette, yeah. But cocaine…you have to promise me never to do it again. I can't save this kid, but I can save you." He looked down at the floor for a moment and squeezed Sherlock's wrists. "And…" he lowered his voice, but set his gaze back on Sherlock. "I can't live without you, and I can't stand knowing that I could lose you to something as disgusting as crack. Please–promise me that you'll stop. I can't lose you."

He waited a few seconds for Sherlock's assurance that his feelings were matched, that Sherlock didn't want to live without him either. That he understood how important it was to John to make this promise. But neither one spoke, and John could see nothing in Sherlock's steely gray-blue eyes to indicate that his plea had had any effect on him.

John hung his head and sighed. Of course. How could he have expected anything? How could he have expected the great, Sherlock Holmes, to understand love? To understand that he and John were both humans? And that humans needed other humans?

That John needed him?

He dropped Sherlock's hands, and with a low, "I'm going out, don't know when I'll be back. Don't wait up," he left the flat.

But despite John's perception, Sherlock had not gone unfazed. He had merely been shocked at John's order, as it wasn't until that moment that he fully realized just how much he must've meant to John for him to have made such a demand.

Sherlock sat there for a while, just staring at the door hoping John would come back in so that he could say something. What with no girlfriend to reside with for the night and the fact that he hated not sleeping in his own bed–John _loved_ his bed–he knew that at most, he would only be gone for four hours. A smile tugged at the corners of Sherlock's lips, enjoying the fact that he not only knew that John would be back soon, but also that he knew him well enough to know why.

And so he turned back to John's laptop to finish his article. But before he did, while he was staring at the door, willing John to come home–he promised.

_I promise, John. Just for you._


	8. Always Look at the Hands

Hello everybody! This is a little quickie, but I also wanted to ask everyone's opinion. It might not influence me (you know how a story can just say, "damn you! I'm gonna go this way!"?) but I would nevertheless appreciate your input. Do you guys want fluffy Valentine's Day chapter? At what point in their relationship? Friends? Lovers? Snogging? et cetera. There'll probably be some sexy. Cause sexy Valentines are fun.

I know the gist of it, but the details need a little "umph" and I thought you guys might wanna help me out! :D

So review with praise/comments and ideas/preferences.

"I Want to Hold Your Hand" - Glee Version.

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><p><em>"Always look at the hands first, John."<em>

That's what he had told him once. He didn't know if John had paid any attention to it, but it was one of his sure-fire methods of deduction. After observing one's hands, you were then to examine the cuffs of their clothing, their trousers, and then the trainers or boots.

One quiet night at Baker Street, John had been lying on the couch reading, but only after an hour or so had dozed off and the book had slumped onto his chest. Sherlock had come into the room, looking for something, but he lost the thought (a rare occurrence for him) when he saw John. Looking so peaceful. He knew that everyone looked peaceful when they slept, but still, he couldn't help but walk over to the couch and just look at him, and after a few minutes, he kneeled beside him to look closer. He took in everything. The way John's breath was deep and how his chest rose and fell, how his hands still held the book, how every once in a while he would swallow and take a deep breath and Sherlock would worry for a split second that he had woken him. John had such bags under his eyes…Sherlock wondered if he had been this way before he had come to live there, or if he was stressed and sleep-deprived.

_His hands._

They had never really held hands, but Sherlock wanted to. At least, he did at that moment. His long fingers slid across John's shorter ones and he carefully, gently, brought it to him, examining them.

A scar from a jagged knife that would only be used in guerrilla warfare. His hands had recently been washed with the dish soap from the kitchen. Rough skin and slight calluses from sandstorms. Loose, flexible joints.

Soldier hands. Doctor hands.

John stirred and Sherlock still held on, his fingers stroking that clean rough skin.

John opened his eyes, hazy from the nap. "Hey."

"Hello, John." Sherlock smiled. He ran his thumb along John's fingers. Back and forth. Back and forth.

"Any reason you're holding my hand?" He blinked slowly, suppressing a yawn.

Sherlock didn't answer. Not immediately anyway, instead he lifted John's hand to his lips and kissed the back of it, so softly that John shivered, and all the while Sherlock never stopped looking at that worn and weary face. That amazing and captivating face, that had seen so many deaths and yet saved so many lives.

Including his own.

"Because it's yours." Sherlock finally answered.

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><p>Don't forget to review with ideas. This originally had a sexy ending, but…that last line just came to me and I thought, "Sexy some other time."<p> 


	9. As You Wish

Not much to say other than wish everyone a Happy Valentine's Day! Sure, "Single Awareness" and all, but I would like to remind everyone that not all love is romantic. And even though it might be fun, it's definitely not the only one worth having.

However, there is certainly no absence of romance in this chapter, but I hope you guys like it nonetheless.

Songs: Breathing Space (X-Ray Dog), Kiss Me (Sixpence None the Richer). You know, just fun, love songs!

Happy Valentine's Day everyone!

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><p>Sherlock loved John Watson. He couldn't really deny it anymore, and he had to accept the fact that love wasn't all just neurotransmitters and serotonin and a biological desire to create perfect offspring.<p>

It was real. A state of being. One that overruled anything Sherlock wanted for himself. And although he knew that any other day would be just as good as to show John that he loved him, he knew that John, being the normal man that he was, would at the very least be subconsciously expecting something on a day devoted to love.

But Sherlock Holmes just didn't know what that could be. He, the most brilliant man in England, couldn't think of something worthy of John's appraisal. Of course, there was the cinema, expensive dinners, flowers, overpriced candy…but Sherlock felt disgusted for having merely thought of something so common and vulgar. He couldn't live without the man, the least he could do was to think of something significant and original.

And yet, nothing came. In the week leading up to February 14th, John could tell something was deeply bothering Sherlock, but he didn't worry about it, as it was no worse than the frenzy that seized him with any other case. Little did he know that it wasn't about a case at all, but himself.

And then the day came. It was a weekday, so John went to the clinic, and Sherlock spent hours in their flat, thinking. Then he took walks outside, tucking the mantlepiece skull into his coat and ranting and raving to it as he walked back and forth across Baker Street. Then he went back, spent another hour thinking and left again. He went to the store and bought a bag of microwave popcorn on a whim, remembering that John loved popcorn. After he walked out of the store though, he stopped, looked at the bag of popcorn in his hands and sighed deeply.

_Yes. Popcorn. Brilliant._

By the time he went home for the final time, it was dark, and he could see that the light was on in their flat. John was home. And he had nothing except a bag of impulsively (and desperately) bought popcorn to present to him. Sherlock had never felt so ashamed in his life. And so he trudged up the stairs, counting them to distract himself, even though he knew how many there were (17). He opened the door and found John sitting upright on the couch looking at his laptop, which he had resting on a table that he had moved from the other room. John obviously wanted him to join him and look at whatever was on his laptop; had he been updating his blog or playing a game he would've sat in his own armchair instead of on the much larger couch, and he also wouldn't have moved a table to rest it on if he was only viewing for himself. And he wanted him to watch something–if it had been an article or a case he still would've sat in his armchair and just handed over the computer to Sherlock. But whatever it was John wanted him to watch he didn't know.

John heard him come in and looked up, a serious look on his face. It certainly didn't make Sherlock feel any better about his failure. He clenched and unclenched his fists in trepidation.

"John, I–"

"No. You're not getting out of this one." He said decisively, shaking his head. "So take off your coat, cause you're not going anywhere for a few hours, and come on." And he thumped the cushion next to him for emphasis, making it quite clear that the matter was closed.

Sherlock couldn't think of a response, and so he just did as John said. When he sat down on the couch, John just smiled. He then leaned forward, hit the spacebar on the computer, and leaned back.

A movie. John wanted him to watch a movie. American. From the late 80's or early 90's going by the woman's hair and the complexity of the boy's video game. Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock couldn't always predict movies. Of course, sometimes there were movies whose plots were so painfully obvious that he could, but seeing as the people on screen were actors, it was hard to get a proper read on their character. Usually he could see into the _actor's_ life, but that information didn't help with the character's development.

"John, what is this?" Sherlock asked after a few minutes, and John paused the movie.

"It's an American movie, _The Princess Bride_. My mum and dad's first date was seeing this in the theater, so every year on Valentine's Day, they made Harry and me watch it. Well…" he hesitated, "…not made. We enjoyed it. It's got pirates and sword fights, and it's really funny. We all just sat down and watched it as a family. Just one of the things we did."

Sherlock smiled a little, at the image of a young John watching this with his family and of the knowledge that pirates would appear soon. But then he frowned a little. John noticed.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm just…" Sherlock paused. "My family was never like that. They weren't abusive or anything of that nature but…no one seemed to care if we spent time with one another. I didn't care either. And that didn't bother me until right now." _How odd_, Sherlock thought to himself.

To say that John's lips on his forehead caught him by surprise would be an understatement, and Sherlock's breath left him at the tenderness of it.

"I bought popcorn." Sherlock said, knowing that it was an inappropriate response to John's comforting kiss, but he could think of nothing else to say.

"Do you know how to make popcorn, Sherlock?"

He didn't answer, and John grinned knowingly. "Don't worry. I'll make it."

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><p>When John came back a few minutes later holding a metal bowl filled with popcorn, Sherlock could tell by the slight shine of oil on John's hands that he had already eaten some. When John put the bowl down and sat on the couch, Sherlock immediately curled up against his chest, nuzzling his head into John's neck. John froze, slightly taken aback by the sudden affection, and the scent from Sherlock's hair temporarily clouded his senses. But he smiled, and merely wrapped his arms around Sherlock's middle, giving his neck a light kiss before starting the movie again.<p>

_"That day, she was amazed to discover that when he was saying, 'As you wish,' what he meant was, "I love you.'"_

Sherlock's eyes widened. _How serendipitous_, he thought to himself.

_"And even more amazing was the day she realized she truly loved him back."_

Sherlock sat up straight, breaking free of John's arms.

"Sherlock? You okay?" John said, worried at the sudden reaction.

Sherlock didn't answer immediately, instead he stared straight ahead, and pressed his hands together and brought them to his lips, as he always did when he was thinking. Then he lowered them and gave John a mischievous and triumphant smile that made John want to tangle his hands in that intoxicating hair.

"Yes. Of course I am." And they lay back down on the couch and he leaned into John's arms, listening to his heart beat.

The movie wore on, and after The Man in Black had beaten Inigo and Fezzick, he came upon Vizzini and the princess. John chuckled.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh, nothing. You'll get it in a minute."

And Sherlock, now curious, turned his attention back to the screen.

The Man in Black pulled out a small vial and handed it to Vizzini.

_"'Inhale this, but do not touch.'"_

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "He's not honestly going to inhale–oh my God. Idiot." He finished as he watched Vizzini sniff the vial.

_"'What you do not smell is called Iocane powder. It is odorless, tasteless, dissolves instantly in liquid, and is among the more deadly poisons known to man.'"_

_"'Hmm.'"_

"Aha." Sherlock whispered, understanding dawning. He looked up at John, "Yes, it's all rather familiar, isn't it?"

"Yep. I thought you might like this."

"I am enjoying it so far, yes." He bit his lip, in a way that John thought was incredibly adorable. "But the movie isn't wholly responsible."

John felt his face go a little red. He wasn't necessarily embarrassed, more…flattered. And again, shocked at Sherlock's affection.

Not that he wasn't enjoying it.

They both watched Vizzini rationalize which cup contained the poison, and Sherlock (much to John's delight) actually gave a hearty laugh in response to The Man in Black's response to Vizzini's explanation of iocane's Australian origins (_"'Truly, you have a dizzying intellect.'"_)

After Vizzini had laughed his last laugh and The Man in Black explained the catch (that the poison was in both cups, and that he had merely been building up an immunity to the poison over the years), John asked Sherlock, "Does that really work? I've never really come across such a case as a doctor."

"Shh! John I'm trying to watch!" Sherlock sighed. "But yes, it doesn't work with all poisons, but some people have been known to build immunities against poison ivy and even arsenic." He finished exasperatedly.

As the movie wore on, Sherlock grew more and more interested–they laughed, smiled, ate all of the popcorn, and Sherlock discovered that "spooning" was a much more enjoyable activity than the name let on.

Sherlock didn't realize how engaged he had been in watching the movie until John paused it before Inigo's confrontation with the Six Fingered Man.

"John!" Sherlock began to protest, twisting around to see John's face, but John only took the opportunity to capture Sherlock's lips with his own, hungrily kissing him. His hands moved to the back of Sherlock's neck, and then one into his hair.

They broke apart, both of them gasping a little.

"What about the movie?" Sherlock whispered breathlessly.

"Screw the movie." And he kissed him again, shorter than the first one, more hurried, more urgent. And Sherlock turned onto his back so that John was on top of him, and he felt John's hands wrap around his lower back and then felt his lips lay light kisses on his neck. "We can finish it tomorrow." He growled, now unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt and kissing down his stomach.

The opening was perfect. The words would fit in answer to John's command. And it's what he'd wanted to do from the beginning. And what would be a more personal way of telling him than this?

_Do it._

"As you wish."

Sherlock felt John stop and he braced himself for the worst. John brought himself back up to Sherlock's face, and their eyes locked.

"What…what did you say?" John whispered.

"I said," Sherlock enunciated, "as you wish."

John's eyes widened. "Do you…really mean that? In the way I think you do?"

"Yes. Always will, John."

John paused for a moment and then stroked Sherlock's cheek with his fingers, marveling in the wonder that was Sherlock Holmes.

"And I you, Sherlock. And I you." Sherlock's hands rested against John's face and he pulled him into a kiss, and he felt so full and complete that he could think of nothing other than John Watson.

"Oh and John? This is the best Valentine's Day I have ever had."

"Me too."

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><p>I know. The ending is a little lackluster, but nevertheless, I hope you guys enjoyed it. I certainly enjoyed writing it if nothing else. So much fun writing all that fluff. Fluff is fun.<p>

And I absolutely love _The Princess Bride_. Such a funny movie. It's fantastic. Highly recommend it to everybody and anybody. Everyone have a happy Valentine's Day!


	10. Blanket

Oh yeah! Double digit chapter time baby! (fist pump, superiority dance, etc.) Thank you to everybody, seriously, it wouldn't have gotten this far if it hadn't been for your reviews. This is a bit on the shorter side, but I thought it was a shorter side prompt. I hope you guys enjoy. :)

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><p>It had been days since Sherlock had slept, but John didn't really worry. Of course he worried a little bit–with the protectiveness he felt for Sherlock and his doctor's instinct how could he not? But he knew that eventually Sherlock's body would shut down, (despite Sherlock's protests), and force him to rest. And so when John came home that night after a slow day at the clinic, the sight of Sherlock slumped in his usual armchair did not surprise him in the least, and it brought a smile to the tired doctor's weary face and a certain contentedness to his heart. He imagined it was how a parent must feel after watching their child struggle for days on end and then at long last find peace.<br>He saw Sherlock's bare feet and noticed that he wasn't wearing his coat and scarf either. So he went to his room, grabbed the blanket off the bed, and came back into the study. He knew he didn't have to worry about waking Sherlock up, so he took as much force as necessary to properly wrap the blanket around the detective.  
>He took a step back, smiled, and then walked into the kitchen to fix himself a snack.<br>When Sherlock awoke at noon the next day, John had already gone to work. At first the blanket had confused him, but then he recognized it as the one from John's room. He looked at the door, knowing that it would be the one that John would enter through in a few hours, and smiled. As though he were actually there.

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><p><strong>R&amp;R Review and Request! :D<strong>


	11. Our Bed

Okay everybody, this is inspired by the Plain White T's song, "Our Song." It's so awesome. I seriously love every song on that album. Which is weird for me. I'm hoping to finish/upload my first rated M fic this week, so I'll keep you guys posted on that front. Hope you guys enjoy. ^.^

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><p>"The sheets have just been washed." He bent down and took in a deep breath, and the brightly clean and yet slightly musty smell of the bed filled his nostrils. "They've been in storage. They used bleach to clean the sheets, luckily they were already white so it's not as noticeable, but they haven't had to use them in a while. Not surprising considering her social skills."<p>

"Oh do calm yourself, Sherlock." Mycroft rolled his eyes at his brother, and his pointless deduction. Sherlock was just trying to prove that he was smart. He was trying to dominate the room, dominate him. It wasn't going to work.

"If I have to come to this inane reunion, then I am allowed to observe. Don't feel threatened that your popularity among our family will decrease just because your odd little brother Sherlock is smarter than you."

They both glared, but Mycroft merely rolled his eyes again, and left the room. Sherlock continued to stare daggers at the door. And then his phone rang.

Not pinged. Rang.

He picked up his phone. It was John.

"Hello, John." Sherlock said.

"Hey, Sherlock. How are you?" John asked.

"Awful."

"Me too. I didn't even like the bloke when I was in the service, and now I have to attend his funeral."

"You could've ignored the request."

"Yeah…I know. But I think it would've been more trouble than it's worth. The guy, Simmons, we used to call him Scrooge when he wasn't around. It's probably going to be a very cheap funeral. I bet there won't be any food."

Sherlock chuckled at John's ease at speaking ill of this dead man, Simmons. It was that fire in John that he loved and missed having with him now. He could've used that spunk here, to rile the relatives. But Mycroft wouldn't have warmed to the idea of John accompanying Sherlock to a family reunion. Honestly, Sherlock wouldn't have been surprised if Mycroft had killed Simmons and summoned John to his funeral, just so he would be busy during the reunion.

"How are the beds? At the hotel?"

"Decent. I didn't want to pay too much though, so…yeah. Take that as you will. How about yours?"

"They've been bleached. Haven't been used in a while because they haven't had guests, so they're trying to compensate by making them as white as possible."

Both men sighed in unison.

"It's only for a few days."

"Yes, I know."

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"I miss you. And Baker Street. And my own bed. And my skull. Mycroft wouldn't let me bring it." John could hear the pout in the last sentence and gave a light-hearted laugh. The sound of it made Sherlock smile a little. It reminded him of home.

Maybe that was it. Maybe John was his home.

"I wish you were here, Sherlock. You'd make the funeral interesting. You'd fluster all of those pompous military gits. It'd be so brilliant. You'd make it fun."

Both men smiled.

"You really miss me?"

"Of course I do, moron. I always miss you." John said exasperatedly. He didn't want to get too sentimental, but he was enjoying talking to Sherlock, and Sherlock could hear the flirtation in his words. John hesitated. "Do you really miss me?"

"Of course, you idiot." Sherlock laughed, that deep, rumbling laugh that only John knew, and it made him laugh as well.

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"This room feels like hell. Seriously. I hate this bloody room. And this bed. It's not right."

"Because it's not ours?"

"Yeah…" They thought of how often they spent sleeping in the same bed, and how it really had become _their _bed.

Sherlock smiled, and so did John, and even though they couldn't see each other, they both knew the other one was too.

"Sherlock!"

"What is it, Mycroft?" Sherlock sighed, looking at the intruder, who had not even bothered to knock before barging in.

"Come in here now. People are here."

"Then I believe where I am is where I would like to remain."

"Now, Sherlock. And I swear, if you mention, or _observe_," he said with disdain, "anything about Aunt Imogene's drinking I will kill you."

"Tell that prat 'over my dead body.'" John snarled. Sherlock merely gave a throaty chuckle at John's threat.

Mycroft's lips tightened at this response (as he had not heard John's comment), which he interpreted as Sherlock ignoring his order.

"Now. Sherlock."

"Fine. I'll be out there in two minutes." He barked, and Mycroft turned on his heels and strode out of the room.

"God I hate him." John sighed. "So we've got two minutes?"

"One minute. The other will be my walking there."

"Oh." John said, disappointed.

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"I miss you."

"I miss you too. I'll leave as early as I can, promise."

"As do I."

"Have a good time."

"Without you? Impossible."

And they both hung up without a goodbye, because they knew each other so well that they didn't need to. And they began to count down the hours until they would see their bed. Until they would see their home. Until they would see the other.


	12. Toby the Yogurt Finder

Lordie this week has been insane. So much homework. I wrote this today! After I finished my psychology portfolio!

(collapses from exhaustion) Anyways. This is based on a picture I saw on deviantart, and if you go to my account (Swirlingdreams) you'll find it in my favorites. It's called "JOHNLOCK" by Pandatails.

Enjoy.

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><p>"Sherlock?" John called out into the flat. When he was met with no response, he continued, "So, we've got a guest, who's going to be staying here for a few days."<p>

The box he had picked up off of Park Street seemed to grow heavier in his arms.

"Okay." John heard Sherlock's voice from the kitchen. He must've been in the middle of an experiment, or else he wouldn't have sounded as uninterested. So John, a little relieved that he didn't have to confront Sherlock right at that moment, breathed a sigh of relief, put the box down, and opened it.

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><p>It took Sherlock two hours to notice, and whether it was due to Sherlock's intense focus on his experiment or Toby's quiet and docile behavior, John didn't know. But he didn't have to guess about Sherlock's reaction to Toby.<p>

He had taken one look at him and said a definitive, "No," with the look of someone who was greatly vexed that they even had to voice their opinion at an idea so ludicrous.

"I know. We're not keeping him. Relax. I saw the number on his collar and called it. The family said they'd pick him up tomorrow, they've been on vacation for the past week, so he must've gotten away the sitter."

Sherlock looked at the medium sized bloodhound, as though he were willing it to leave his flat.

"His name is Toby." John said, smirking at Sherlock's clearly uncomfortable and displeased expression. "Just in case you were wondering."

Sherlock glared at him, but it had no effect on John's smirk.

"Just out of curiosity, Sherlock, do you hate animals too?"

"I don't hate them. I just don't find them terribly useful. And I don't think any animal would be able to survive living with me."

"Yeah, I'm barely making out of this alive." John said jokingly.

"Well, I need you, John." He gave a small smile. "I don't need this animal."

"He's not going rearrange your sock index, Sherlock. It's just for one night. And he's been very well behaved. So far."

"Fine." Sherlock said casually, heading back into the kitchen. "I'm holding you responsible for anything that happens though!"

John smiled at the idea of Sherlock punishing him and went back to updating his blog.

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><p>"Hey, I have to go buy some dog food for Toby. The owners asked me to feed him. And yes, they're paying us back. Don't experiment on him, alright?"<p>

"'Can't experiment on him,' meaning inflicting harm?"

"Oh god. I'll be back in 20 minutes!" Sherlock heard the door shut and looked at the dog. It had been a slow couple of hours, what with no case and his experiment now over with, so he was sitting by the window, just thinking.

He heard the soft click of the dog's nails against the floor and turned. Toby was sitting in front of him, and Sherlock got the impression that he was being examined. He furrowed his eyebrows and looked at the dog–_really_ looked at him. _Bloodhound._

And then he got an idea. He got up and went to the kitchen and opened one of John's yogurt containers. He brought it back to Toby and held it out to him, watching him intently. He sniffed it and then put his nose to the floor and began to trace over the entire room. Sherlock watched him, fascinated, and when Toby entered Sherlock's room, he got up and followed him. He saw that Toby was sniffing at a small lump of clothes on the floor. He watched as Toby used his nose to sort through the pile, and then dragged out one of John's jumpers. Sherlock picked it up and looked. Sure enough, the spot from where he had spilled the yogurt yesterday was there.

Sherlock gave the dog an affectionate rub, wondering what other objects he could use to test Toby's sense of smell.

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><p>Imagine John's surprise when he came home to find Sherlock deep in thought and yet casually petting Toby, as naturally as though it was something he did all the time. And after Toby had had his dinner, John laid down on the couch so that he could rest and watch Sherlock work at the same time. He could feel himself slipping in and out of consciousness, and he smiled when he felt Sherlock lay down beside him and wrap one of his arms around his chest. They both sighed.<p>

"You should sleep." Sherlock whispered in his ear.

"I honestly don't think that's going to be an issue in the next few minutes." John blinked slowly, yawning. "So enjoy me while I'm still conscious."

Sherlock yawned too. "I am." Sherlock smiled a little. "John?"

"Mmhm?"

"I like the dog."

"That's good."

"We should get one."

Even on the brink of sleep John was still sharp. "Absolutely not."

"Aw." He pretended to whine.

"Knowing you it'd be dead within the week."

"That's why we get something sturdy."

"I cannot stand bulldogs, Sherlock."

"What's wrong with bulldogs?"

But John didn't respond, and Sherlock felt the tension in John's body melt away and he slumped a little more into the couch, and Sherlock did too. He had been joking about the dog: he had merely wanted to tease John. But he had actually been pleasantly surprised by how much he liked Toby.

Just then Sherlock felt a warmth on his leg, and saw that Toby had jumped up onto the couch, and was now resting his head on Sherlock's leg. He felt the peace of domesticity hit him, as he realized how quiet it all was–falling asleep with his arms wrapped around his lover on their couch, and a dog falling asleep on his calf. He felt incredibly warm and pleasant. And so he gave Toby a final rub with his foot, drew a little closer to John, and let the warm feeling consume him as he drifted off to sleep.

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><p>Oh, and congratulations to those that caught the fact that John's shirt was in Sherlock's room.<p>

Yes, that was deliberate. As was Sherlock's disregard for opening John's food and then leaving it out and spoiling it.

One more thing, the yawning, how when John yawned and then Sherlock yawned (and while I was writing it I actually did too), I was reading the other day that yawning being contagious is based on empathy. So people lacking empathy don't yawn as much. So psychopaths don't yawn. I thought that was interesting. And I think they're definitely in sync enough, you know?


	13. The Astronaut and the Pirate

My first request prompt that I've written! Don't worry hannahcakes, I haven't forgotten your idea. ;) I'm saving that one for later. But this one came to me yesterday. Anyways. So, this is Nymphadora Andromeda Lupin's idea, of the prompt "Moon." I have to admit, I thought about this one for a while, and inspiration struck me last night.

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><p>Sherlock came into the room to find John sitting by the window, gazing at the moon. He knew he had at the very least five seconds before he would notice his presence, and so he allowed himself to enjoy the rays of moonlight reflecting off of John's skin. He always found John attractive, but for some reason…he had found himself more drawn to him than usual that day. His eyes lingered at the solid upper arms of the soldier, that were so beautifully framed in the sleeveless tank top shirt he was wearing at the moment.<p>

"Does it make you feel wistful? I notice that you often stare out the window for extended periods of time when there is a full moon." Sherlock asked.

"Why would it make me wistful?"

"Because you wanted to be an astronaut when you were younger."

John chuckled and Sherlock could hear it in his words, "How could you possibly know that?"

"Your appreciation for the sky, as well as your prowess for identifying constellations. Occasionally you display the intimate and specific knowledge of a detail of a planet." He walked over to the window and sat across from John, who continued to gaze at the moon. "Schooling doesn't go into such detail, so you must've done the research yourself, meaning you were interested in astronomy as a child, and you must've been a child, otherwise you wouldn't be able to recite the information with such ease. And there's really only one reason a child would have such a pressing interest to learn astronomy, being that they wished to be an astronaut. But it must've been something that you just grew out of. Otherwise you would call upon that knowledge with disdain. But you don't." He finished with a rather weary sigh.

"Yeah. When I was about 12 or 13. I just didn't want to be one anymore." John sighed, taking his eyes away from the window for the first time to look at Sherlock. "What about you?"

"Oh…well." Sherlock gave (what John thought to be) a rather innocent and adorable smile, as though he were remembering some amusing event. "Piracy. It was my favorite game."

"Ah. If only you lived in another time period. The pirates nowadays are so impolite."

"Yes. I was definitely not the Somali pirate type."

They both laughed, and after watching the silvery white light of the moon catch off of John's dark blue eyes and trace itself over the muscles he had earned from Afghanistan, Sherlock couldn't help himself. He took John's face in his hands, leaned forward, and kissed him a single stride. His hands eventually moved from John's face to the toned arms he had been gazing at earlier that were now wrapped around his back, and the knowledge that John was stronger than him (and the fact that he wasn't conspicuous about it) only served to arouse him further. He broke apart from John, giving shaky breaths as he felt his cheeks burn from the passion.

"Oh god, John. How can you do this to me? How can any human being have such an effect on me?"

"What? You were expecting something _other_ than a human being?" John chuckled, enjoying Sherlock's flushed face. He moved his hand to stroke Sherlock's cheek, and a small and yet undeniable moan that came from the detective made him feel both powerful and protective. "Why do you say that?"

"You seem to be iridescent in the moonlight. It's doing things to your body that make you look positively breathtaking."

John couldn't resist. He enjoyed hearing Sherlock praise _him_ for a change. He leaned forward to suck on his neck and Sherlock gasped. "Like what?"

"Nothing really…just…ah!" He cried when John nibbled on a bit of his skin, throwing his head back and exposing his neck more. "The light makes your body look sculpted. Statuesque."

"Go on." John said nonchalantly.

"And…" He couldn't focus. He tried to think of something simple, like the atomic mass of plutonium, but every time he got remotely close to actually pinpointing it, John's lips on his throat brought him crashing back to earth in a flash of heat and pleasure. "Oh, I don't know, John! How am I supposed to think when I'm intoxicated with lust?" He said indignantly. John smiled into his neck and planted a soft kiss on him before pulling back to look at him.

"I don't. It's just so much fun watching you squirm. And hearing you say, 'how am I supposed to think,' is always fun too."

Sherlock sat there, breathing deeply for a bit before he said anything in reply. "Is it mutual, John?"

He blinked, taken aback by the question. "Sorry?"

"Is the relative intoxication I'm feeling from your pulchritude mutual?"

"Of course it is, Sherlock. You have one of the–" but he thought about, he _really_ thought about it. "No. You have _the_ most beautiful body I have ever seen." He corrected himself, and he knew it was true. "I think my 'intoxication' just shows itself in different ways."

"Well. That is a satisfactory answer for me."

"Mm." John moaned, and he pulled Sherlock into another hungry, intoxicating kiss.

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><p>If you couldn't think of the atomic mass of plutonium off the top of their head when John Watson was kissing and sucking on your neck, review. If you could think of the atomic mass of plutonium off the top of your head while John Watson was kissing and sucking on your neck, you have no soul. But review anyway.<p> 


	14. Mondays

To everybody who has reviewed these past few chapters and has not received a thank you from me, I'm really sorry, it's not that I don't appreciate you, because I most certainly want to encourage reviews, it's just these past few weeks I've had a million things due. And I've just been writing whenever I had spare time.

But I'm starting off afresh with this one. And I'm going to get back into the habit. :)

So, I hope you enjoy this one. It's a little present for you guys, hopefully it'll make your Monday a little better.

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><p>"God, I hate Mondays." John said, gripping his head, hoping that the pain would subside.<p>

"I've told you time and time again, that if you drank more water on Sunday that this wouldn't happen."

"How much am I supposed to drink, Sherlock? The whole bloody Pacific?" He roared at his flatmate. Pain and patience did not go hand-in-hand.

"Of course not, John." He stared at him with a gravely serious expression. "It's saltwater for one thing. It would be completely ineffective in hydrating you."

John clapped a hand to his forehead in exasperation and immediately regretted it, shutting his eyes when the dull and aching pain in his skull grew. He gave a deep sigh and tried not to shout this time.

"Look…" He paused. "If you can't say anything helpful, will you kindly shut up?"

"Would you like a massage?"

This was such a random and surprising question that John's eyes flew open. For a minute he couldn't respond, instead he just stared at Sherlock with his brow furrowed, unsure if he had heard him correctly. Sherlock rolled his eyes upon seeing John's bewildered expression.

"A massage, John. Rubbing the body to relieve tension. Honestly, I have to elaborate everything." He sighed exasperatedly.

"Wait…how is you pounding my head going to make me feel better?"

"You're a doctor aren't you? Shouldn't you know?" He chuckled.

"Yeah, and I've tried the whole 'apply pressure to occipital' thing. It doesn't help."

"Don't be daft, John. Your failure doesn't indicate that the method is a failure." John glared at him.

"Fine." He said through gritted teeth, and he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Sherlock grabbed one of their chairs, placed it directly behind John's armchair and sat down. He let his hands rest on John's shoulders for a moment before he began to knead the tense skin he felt beneath the jumper. He heard John hiss.

"Oh wow…you're gonna give me bruises, Sherlock." He winced. It was a little uncomfortable, but he couldn't deny how nice it felt. He hadn't even realized how tight his shoulders were until Sherlock had started forcing the kinks out, and it felt amazing.

"Just try and relax, John. Sit up." He did as he was told, and Sherlock's fingers pressed in between the notches in his spine. "And try to stay still." It was at that precise moment that he pressed on a particular vertebra and John arched his back involuntarily. It was so sudden that John nearly fell out of his chair.

"Jesus!" But Sherlock continued unabashed, and let his hands move up to the back of John's neck and the base of his skull. "Oh my god…" John whispered. "Mmmm…" he moaned, and Sherlock smiled at the power he felt from knowing that he had John Watson moaning at his fingertips.

It went on for a few minutes and Sherlock eventually stopped. John sat there a moment, not feeling Sherlock's expert fingers and firm hands on him felt odd.

"Blimey." He said quietly in surprise. "Headache's gone." He turned around to look at Sherlock for the first time since he had started. "Thanks."

"Anytime, John."

"I might have to take you up on that." He smiled. As did Sherlock, who hoped that headaches wouldn't be the only occasion in which he could hear John moan in pleasure because of him.


	15. The Lesson

**Sorry about the delay on this everyone, my Internet's been down since Wednesday. This was at the idea/request of hannahcakes in her review of chapter 6. I hope you guys enjoy it, and the song (if anyone is interested) is the Vitamin String Quartet version of Fall Out Boy's "Dance, Dance."**

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><p>"Honestly John, it's really quite simple."<p>

"No, Sherlock! It's not 'quite simple!'"

"Of the two human beings in this room, which one is more able to make a well-informed and intelligent decision on the difficulty of a certain task?"

"I really think there's only one human being in this room: me. But in any case I should cause I'm normal."

Sherlock scoffed. "Ugh. Boring. Now try it again."

"Sherlock, my fingers are tired. I seriously can't play anymore. My fingers are going to start bleeding and I'm going to get an infection."

"Are you insinuating something about the cleanliness of my bow?"

"Actually, maybe I am." John set the violin down on the armchair. "You've come home soaked in blood before."

"Pig's blood." Sherlock murmured.

"As if that makes it alright!" John shouted, throwing his hands up in defeat. "How am I supposed to know what sort of rubbish gets on your bow?" He crossed the room, desperate to get away from the world's most aggravating flatmate, and let himself fall onto the couch. For a few minutes, neither one said anything.

And then a few deep and almost throaty notes rang through the room, and John knew Sherlock was trying to goad him into coming back and learning how to play. But he wasn't going to, he refused to give Sherlock the satisfaction. Even if he really did want to learn how.

The rich and low notes melted into a series of sweet high pitched ones, all so light and quick that John thought of snowflakes caught in a whirlwind. Then a dramatic melody that was played over and over again, and then fast plucks, then back to the dainty snowflake notes, and then that melody again. It was all so beautiful that John couldn't help but smile and give a very heavy and contented sigh, as though he were so overwhelmed with bliss that he _had_ to exhale. It slowed down and he heard only single notes, held for several seconds and John rolled his eyes in amusement and finally caved.

"It's an E."

Sherlock smiled, happy to see that John was back. He played another note.

"That's a G. Oh, and that one's an A."

He waited, and John got up from the couch and walked over towards Sherlock. He lowered the violin and held it in his right hand.

"What song was that?"

"Would you like to play it?"

John sighed. "Yes. I would."

Sherlock smiled. "Alright then." He handed the violin to John, who let it rest under his chin. He came up behind him and took his left hand to show him the first note for the melody. Once his fingers were in place, Sherlock handed John the bow, and he stroked it across the taut strings, and what issued was the single most perfect note John had ever played.

Sherlock could hear the smile in John's voice when he spoke. "You know, I'm not going to lie, that was cool. But honestly…" He stepped forward to untangle Sherlock's guiding hands from him and removed the violin from his left shoulder and held it out to Sherlock. "I think I enjoy hearing you play more."

He took it and smiled. "I should expect so."

John's eyes twinkled, "Oh shut up." He teased.

Sherlock said nothing, instead he merely whipped the violin onto his shoulder and began to play the song again.

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><p><strong>Reviews make my Internet work.<strong>


	16. Condoms

**Hello everyone! I've got a bit of a personal update that concerns you all. First, I wrote my first non-Sherlock fanfiction, called _New York, 1953_, in honor of Alex Kingston and John Barrowman's shared birthday on Sunday, so Doctor Who fans check it out please! Second, as I am going on vacation for the next two weeks, you won't get be getting any updates cause I'm not sure yet about the Internet situation. But I do know that on the plane I'll be writing. With that being said, reviews would be greatly appreciated along with some suggestions. Does anyone have any ideas? Anything to keep me occupied with? That way I can post a few more consecutively when I get back.**

**Anyways. I hope you enjoy this one, and I promise, if you guys shoot me a few reviews, I'll spoil you when I get back. ;)**

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><p>"John. Remember how we got tested a few days ago?"<p>

"Mmhmm." He said absentmindedly, too enthralled by the book he was reading.

"Would you run to the store and buy these items?"

"Sure. When?"

"Now would be preferable." Sherlock said, grabbing the laptop and walking over to John, who was forced to look away from his book when it was shoved into his lap. "I've pulled them up on here. You'll want to take down a list." He handed him a notepad and pen as well and walked away.

"Alright, then." John said slowly, making a mental note of his page number, but when he saw the contents of the screen all thoughts of page numbers left his head. His eyes widened, and he blinked a few times to make sure he wasn't imagining the items. When the screen didn't change, he scrolled through the nine other windows that showed similar merchandise, and with each one his mouth widened a little more in disbelief.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"These are all condoms, yeah? Boxes of condoms."

"Yes, of course."

"Oh, of course." He said sarcastically. "Just making sure I'm not hallucinating. Do you _need_ ten boxes of condoms?"

"If you'll notice, they're all different kinds. That way I can determine the best one."

John stared at him, utterly bewildered. "You seriously want me to go to the store and buy ten boxes of _condoms_?"

Sherlock looked up at him with slight exasperation. "Yes."

John opened his mouth to speak but found that there were no words to either dissuade Sherlock from his request or to address the absurdity of it, so he closed his mouth, grabbed Sherlock's card, and headed to the store.

The first thing John grabbed upon entering the store was a shirt. He wanted to have something he could use to cover his purchases. He was still somewhat in a state of shock over his errand, and after a very long and awkward eight minutes in the men's health aisle, he was ready to kill Sherlock for sending _him_ to do it instead of doing it himself. He didn't want to walk all the way to the front and buy the things in front of disapproving and judgmental eyes, so he walked down a few aisles to the Pharmacy checkout. Unfortunately, since it was the Pharmacy section, he couldn't check out manually.

The cashier was a girl who looked to be about the same age as Molly, with dingy black hair that had been flattened and smoothed down from days of not washing it.

"Havin' a frat party?" She said with an American accent.

"Sorry?" John said.

"Never mind. You don't have those here." She said disdainfully. John, slightly taken aback, handed her Sherlock's card. She blew a few bubbles with her gum while she rang up the items, and when she was finished, she handed him his bags and gave a lecherous sneer that John could only imagine was meant to be an amiable and knowing smile. "Have a good time."

He gave a curt nod and left as quickly as he could, hoping that no one could see the embarrassment in his cheeks. As he walked further down Baker Street, the more annoyed he became: not only had he had to find ten different kinds of infuriatingly specific condoms, but he'd also had to deal with a crude employee. Normally, stuff like this didn't bother him, but he was pinning his exasperation down to the fact that Sherlock had interrupted his peaceful and lazy Saturday morning for a silly (and what had been a very humiliating) errand.

He was going to give Sherlock a piece of his mind when he got home.

He stomped up the stairs and flung the door open. Sherlock didn't seem to have moved–he was still standing by the mirror, his hands pressed together, eyebrows furrowed in thought. As though he hadn't even noticed that John had left. But he definitely noticed when he came in.

"Sherlock, I–!" John began, but in a few single strides–_Christ those legs were long_–Sherlock had his hands on John's face and was kissing him with such unadulterated passion that John completely forgot not only how angry he was, but also his entire train of thought. He was so caught so completely by surprise that he didn't move, he just let Sherlock devour him. When he felt Sherlock nibble playfully on his lip, he became aware of his pounding heart, and he had a feeling Sherlock was aware of it too.

When Sherlock ended the kiss, John stood there, waiting for a thought to appear in his mind, but he was so blown away by the intensity of what had happened that nothing came until Sherlock spoke directly to him.

"John. I was thinking." Sherlock began, his voice probably an octave lower than usual. "That we could maybe test some of those condoms now."

He didn't even have to think about it. "Okay." He said breathily, and he let the bags fall to the floor so that he could tangle his hands in Sherlock's hair, and he kissed him again.

_Totally worth it._

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><p><strong>I'll miss you all. Please review :)<strong>_  
><em>


	17. Candyman

**I have returned! (rises from platform complete with fog and music) Yeah! I had a fantastic time, saw lots of stuff that some people will never get to see, for which I feel very bad for them. I never knew water could really be that blue. Just incredible. Unfortunately, my first day back at school was kinda crappy, cause the guy I would really like to ask me to prom asked someone else. And what sucks even more was that I didn't think I would care. Oh well, I'll get over it. I'm too sexy for them anyway. ;P** **But true to my promise, I have (at the moment) four more finished chapters, which will come in the next few consecutive days.**

**But can I just say that I love this song? So much. And the music video is wonderful. I love swing music and the sound of the 40's. It's just fantastic. So, this was born. I hope you enjoy it. I saw this as just a case of green eyes. I don't know if they're in a relationship or not, if they're just friends right now or what.**

**You decide. ;) Enjoy.**

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><p>"I can't believe you."<p>

"Why? You look very convincing."

"Yeah, as an amoral scumbag." John said, holding out the hem of his skintight sleeveless dark blue shirt, as though to illustrate its unpleasantness.

"Which is exactly what we're going for." Sherlock replied nonchalantly, readjusting the huge glasses he was wearing. He looked down at his own disguise: a white-collar, short sleeve, button down shirt and a gaudy tie. He looked like a contemporary, cheating, middle class sleaze. Whereas John looked like a gangster with his sleeveless shirt, heavy cargo pants and backwards cap. Sherlock had to admit, John not only looked convincing, but he also looked _good_.

"Oh, I hate you."

"You've honestly never been to a strip club, John? Are you scared? Do I need to hold your hand as you've never been inside one before?" He mocked, speaking to John as though he were a child afraid of not having his night light.

John gave a sultry chuckle at this, as though he was recalling something pleasant. "Well, actually–"

"Oh, do shut up, I know you never have."

"Actually–"

But Sherlock cut him off again, scared by the fact that the idea of John getting off on an ordinary stripper made his throat tighten in anger. "We're here, John." He gestured to the dim and faded neon sign that said _Candyman_, and featured a cartoon of a pinup girl.

Sherlock rubbed his hands together, readying himself for their charade.

"And please, _try_ not to do anything idiotic."

John merely snorted and rolled his eyes, and thought to himself, _if anyone would need to refrain from doing something idiotic it would be you._ And they stepped inside.

* * *

><p>"Would you like a drink?" Said yet <em>another<em> practically naked girl holding a drink tray. This was insane, were they _supposed _to offer you food and drink at a strip club? Or was it just _this_ particular club? Sherlock didn't exactly have much expertise in the area, (despite his own derisions of John on the subject) he had never been inside of one before, so he didn't have anything else to compare it to. It took every ounce of self control he had not to walk out, but he was motivated by the idea that eventually, their girl would show up. The one who Sherlock already suspected had killed her sister for money. She would be a customer, and if Sherlock was correct, she would be wearing clothing similar to John.

He couldn't wait to get out of this wretched place, with its blinding, multicolored lights, and its loud, pumping music. There was simply too much stupid in the room.

The only solace he had was the fact that John looked as uncomfortable as he felt: his face ice cold and rigid with disdain, just as he had seen him look at Mycroft so many times, with fists as well as his jaw clenched. Then again, he didn't know if that was genuine disgust or if he was just trying to maintain character.

He found himself praying that the girl would show up soon.

"How about you, hon? You want a drink?" The waitress had rounded on John.

"No." He said gruffly, and the waitress sulked away, looking very put out.

John waited until she was out of earshot to turn to Sherlock and say, "You owe me big for this."

"I never owe you for anything else we do." Sherlock tried to focus on something other than John, scanning the area again for their murderer. The performers (as that was the nicest title he could think of) were dancing on the stage, and Sherlock's lip curled in disgust as he watched some of them walk off in various directions, and then he watched in horror as one of them came towards their table.

_She'll go for John_, he thought to himself. _Who wouldn't? He's wearing a much more flattering costume than I am._

And lo and behold she did. She was wearing a tight white button down (with no buttons done), which indicated her lack of a bra, and very high riding shorts. It was obvious that the club was going for some kind of retro, pinup girl theme. She swung her leg over John's open legs and straddled him, both hands gripping the sides of his neck as she grinded against his hips. It was like Sherlock wasn't even there–neither she or John seemed to know that he was sitting a mere two feet away from them. He was certain that John wouldn't be enjoying it, but then he saw John's hands rest on the girl's hips, and Sherlock found that he was so angry by this that for a few moments, he actually stopped thinking (something that scared him a great deal after he "regained his senses"). It was like he had drunk something as hot as fire, and he could feel it pounding in time with the music through his skull, limbs, fingertips, and chest.

White hot jealousy.

How long had it been since she had come over? Five seconds? 15 seconds? Half a minute? Sherlock honestly didn't know (something that also scared him), but it felt like an eternity. He knew that if this girl, this disgustingly normal and vile demon, didn't get off of John soon, that the fire was sure to consume him. Or perhaps something worse. And so without giving it a second thought, Sherlock stood up and shoved her off of John (his John) with all of his might. She stumbled backwards into another girl and they both fell to the ground, where they began clawing and screaming at each other. What happened after that was a bit of a blur, but Sherlock saw it all: the second stripper's heel had hit a rather large and burly man's tattooed calf, the man, having turned around and seen another tattooed man, swung and hit him square in the face. The other man hit back, and soon, others joined in, and a mere 32 seconds later, a beer bottle was shattered, but whether it was over someone's head or not, Sherlock couldn't tell.

He quickly made a move to grab John's arm, so as to indicate their need to escape, but John (the quick and light-footed soldier that he was) had already leapt out of his chair about 20 seconds into the fight. They both started carefully running, hearts pounding, avoiding punches, smashing bottles, broken glass, and stiletto heels.

_How big is this club?_ Sherlock thought to himself when they saw the green neon EXIT sign about 10 meters away. Then he felt something hit his arm, and he glanced around to see that it was John.

"What the hell was that for?" He yelled at Sherlock as they continued to pick their way through the chaotic maze.

"It was a man! Someone sent by our suspect!" Sherlock blurted out quickly. It was a lie, of course, but it had been the first thing that had popped into his mind. He needed _something _to convince John that his actions had been justified, even if they really hadn't been.

"Who? The stripper?" John asked, so bewildered that he wondered if he had jumped to the absolute wrong conclusion.

"Of course!"

"There is no way that was a man, Sherlock! I'm pretty sure she was close enough for me to know!"

"John, don't be stupid! It was obviously a man, didn't you see the hair on his arms?" Again. A lie.

"I wasn't focused on the arms, alright?" John shouted.

There it was. The exit.

_Finally_.

They crashed through the door and stopped outside to catch their breath. They could no longer hear the sounds of the violence and beating music that they knew were taking place inside.

"What about…our murderer?" John panted out. "Whoever it was we were waiting for?" He leaned against the wall, eyes shut, trying to bring more oxygen to his burning lungs.

Sherlock, equally as out of breath, let his back hit the wall and looked at John. Both breathing heavily, he said, "There will be other times." He cracked a smile, and John did too, and the smiles soon turned into hearty laughter, as was customary of their post-chases.

"Come on, let's get out of here." John said.

"Yes. Quite." And Sherlock started forward, but John placed a hand on his chest and stopped him. Sherlock looked up to see John looking very serious.

"First, take those stupid things off. Cause if I'm stupid for not knowing that the stripper who straddled me was a man, then you're a _proper idiot_ for wearing those things." He said, pointing to the enormous glasses Sherlock was wearing, that had somehow managed to stay on during their escape. Sherlock smiled, but obliged and whipped off the glasses to stick them in his pocket.

John smiled and they both started laughing again, this time at the ridiculousness of their disguises, and they took off running again towards the nearest taxi.

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><p><strong>Reviews are (as always) greatly appreciated. Expect more tomorrow.<strong>


	18. Beach Sex

**After years of saving and planning, we went to Hawaii, the Big Island specifically. Which I loved. Kona was very…small townish. In areas there were very rusty shacks and there was just nature everywhere. Beautiful stuff really. If it were a painting style, it would be all in watercolor.**

**But therefore I so couldn't _not_ write a beach one shot. Except I couldn't see them going to the beach and relaxing, you know? Not like normal people. But I could see this scenario.**

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><p>John never thought of beach sex as pleasant. The idea always seemed so…uncomfortable. Because how was getting sand wedged everywhere–and he meant that quite literally– sensual and romantic? How was that worth pursuing?<p>

But Sherlock was incredibly curious when it came to sex. Having no previous experience (and being the thorough man that he naturally was) he was determined to try anything and everything he could come up with. His energy knew no bounds. And so that day at dinner he had asked John if they could go to Kent and try the previously mentioned "coitus on the beach," as he had phrased it. John had dropped his fork in surprise and turned red with embarrassment. He then muttered something about sand, and stuffed a forkful of carrots in his mouth so that he didn't have to answer. Sherlock had been slightly disappointed at the answer, as John had never denied him any of his sexual demands before, and so he told John that if he would be willing to sleep on it and then tell him his final decision in the morning, that he would greatly appreciate it. John agreed, but he had already made his mind up.

John wasn't like Sherlock: he had perfectly normal dreams. They were things that easily could happen in real life. (Sherlock often had dreams that featured such issues as the mountainside, bicycles, llamas, and once, llamas riding bicycles on mountains).

But John had the most bizarre dreams that night.

_Sand. _

_The granules press pleasantly into his back. _

_And Sherlock comes from nowhere, and he's on him, on top of him. His hands hold his face, and Sherlock presses both his lips and hips into John. John wraps his leg around Sherlock's waist in response and moans into his mouth._

_Then Sherlock is kissing his neck, sucking on it. John gasps at the contact and at the taste of saltwater as a wave surrounds them and the water floods his mouth. He licks his lips and the salt only makes him hungry for Sherlock's mouth. So he grabs him by the neck and brings him back to his mouth, crashing down on him as hard as the waves do against the rocks. Another dose of the sea surges under his back, and a chill goes up his spine, which makes him wrap his arms around Sherlock's neck, desperate for the warmth._

"_Sherlock!" He gasps. He can't help himself, and Sherlock's long fingers trace down John's wet, salty abdomen, tracing the muscles and doing things that he knows will only weaken John._

"_Soldier, soldier." Sherlock purrs into his ears and it doesn't make any sense, and it shouldn't have this effect on him but it does and John has to shut his eyes from the overwhelming pleasure he feels. Sherlock's tongue flickers out and touches his stomach, outlining the muscles just as his fingers had, and John's back arches into Sherlock's mouth from the contact. He can't control himself anymore, and it's as if Sherlock is playing him, pressing different areas to elicit different sounds. Like a piano._

_Play me anytime, John thinks. _

_Sherlock smiles, knowing that he's completely in control for a change. And John smiles, knowing that he is completely at Sherlock's mercy._

_The sun. The sand. The ocean. The salt. The cold. The warmth. Too much._

_It's too much._

_Sherlock's fingers toy with the strings on his trunks and John knows he's already so hard. And it feels so nice when Sherlock pulls them down, and–_

"Oh!" John cried as he bolted upright, sweating. He brings a hand to his forehead and is surprised to find that he's _not_ at the beach and that Sherlock's tongue isn't–_oh god. _He groans and grits his teeth at the loss of riding out the full course of the dream.

Now of course, he was used to waking up hard, but this was different. Hard as a tree from the dream that had very nearly gone into full, passionate, intercourse. He looks up as he wipes the sweat from his face to see the clock by his bed. 8:13 AM.

Without a second thought, (and certainly without putting on a shirt), John ran into the kitchen looking for Sherlock, who he knew would be up by now, either playing his violin or conducting an experiment.

He was pondering over something on the counter, wearing goggles, and holding a pipette. But John didn't care. Without giving him any warning or chance to dodge him, he knocked Sherlock against the wall and kissed him forcefully, to somehow compensate for his lack of dominance in the dream. Sherlock seemed shocked at the sudden greeting, but nevertheless, John felt him respond timidly, and his lips slowly curved into John's. He liked that. He liked that he had finally caught the most attentive man on the planet off guard.

"We're going to Kent today. And we are going to screw on the beach until that brain of yours melts from orgasm."

Sherlock wasn't miffed at all by John's words, and he merely smiled. "What about work?" He asked. It was rhetorical.

John growled. "To hell with the clinic." And he gripped Sherlock's hips, while Sherlock locked his arms around John's neck and he dropped the pipette.

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><p><strong>That whole Sherlock being very imaginative and enthusiastic in their sexual life idea is borrowed from gwenweybourne's fanfic "<em>Reboot<em>." Which, if you are looking for some seriously well done Sherlock hot sex, you need to drop whatever you are doing and read now. Seriously, it's amazing. I've read it over and over again. It is so wonderfully amazing and just oh my god go read it.**

**Sorry. Anyways. For those of you wondering why you didn't get a chapter yesterday despite my promise of consecutive stories, it's because yesterday I published a different story, that's actually story based off a segment of that story (_Reboot)_, so if you want to check it out, it's called "_The_ _Look_."**


	19. Iced Mint

**What does everyone think of the name, Violet Robinson? For my official pen name? For more information: swirlingdreams. deviantart /journal/For-Those-with-an-Interest-in-Nomenclature-293151653  
><strong>

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><p>"John? What do I smell like?" They were both lying face up on John's bed, with Sherlock's head nestled between John's neck, and John's right arm resting against Sherlock's chest.<p>

"Icy." It was the first word that popped into his mind. "You always smell clean. Hang on." John sat up and rolled over so that he was on top of Sherlock, and he nuzzled his neck, taking in a deep breath and Sherlock gave a few small but deep laughs at the sensation.

"Mmmm…" John sighed out in delight. He took in another breath and smiled. He loved that smell–it was unlike anything he'd ever smelled, and he had never really _truly_ understood the meaning of "intoxicating" until he had smelled Sherlock. Come to think of it, there were a lot of things he found intoxicating about Sherlock Holmes. The way his body seemed to be sculpted of marble. His black as night hair that always had a few perfectly formed ringlets. His iridescent eyes. The way his voice deepened when he wanted something. The look on his face and the moans (and other sounds) he emitted whenever John pushed him over the edge.

Just everything about him really.

"Well?" Sherlock asked again, his eyes wide in anticipation. John couldn't help but kiss him, he looked so adorable. He knew that helplessly innocent face was only ever seen by him.

"Iced, candied mint. Imagine sugar crystals hanging on the edge of frosty mint leaves."

"That's a lovely image."

"Mm." John nodded in agreement.

"Does you like how I smell?"

John chuckled, "Of course I do. It's my personal aphrodisiac. If I could only smell one thing for the rest of my life, it would be you."

Sherlock leaned up and kissed John's nose in flirtation. "Ditto." Then he had that glint in his eye, and his mouth turned up into that mischievous look that made John's heart beat a little faster (and they both knew it too). "Aphrodisiac, you say?"

"That's right." John said, adopting the same look, knowing where Sherlock was going with the question.

"Prove it." Sherlock whispered sharply, but playfully.

"Challenge accepted." John chuckled and kissed him fiercely, and they said nothing else for a good while.


	20. Airport Protocol

**Alright, this is a bit of a shorter one. Been tossing this around since I saw xxFakeMustache's "Wonderwall" on deviantart.**

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><p>Sherlock had been waiting at the gate for two hours. He knew he didn't need to be there so early, but he couldn't help himself.<p>

He missed John so much his bones ached.

John had left a few weeks earlier to train some of the new doctors and soldiers. He had been specially requested by the government, so he couldn't very well say no to it, but it didn't mean that Sherlock had to like it. And so he paced across the floor for what was the hundred and sixth time (yes, he was counting, that's how anxious he was), pressing his hands together, debating how to greet John when he came through.

He was genuinely confused. What _was_ the protocol? Should he just embrace him? Or would a simple handshake suffice? He didn't think that John–despite his surprising strength–could handle Sherlock jumping and snogging him like the couples in the movies did.

Luckily, he didn't have to dwell on it too much, because a few moments later he felt a tap on his shoulder, and Sherlock was so distracted thinking about what he would do when he saw John, that he didn't even deduce who it was based on the weight of their finger, or the cadence of the tap. Instead he just turned around and John Watson's arms were suddenly wrapped around his neck and John was kissing him as if–well, as if they hadn't kissed in weeks. Sherlock brought his hands to John's back, feeling the tough cotton of his uniform, bringing his right hand up to rest at the back of John's new, sharply cut hair. Apparently army regulations applied to everyone, no matter how short their stay.

When John finally pulled away–as Sherlock very well could've gone on kissing him just like that for a good few days–to stroke Sherlock's face, Sherlock smiled and kissed John's forehead. If this was the proper airport greeting protocol, maybe the wait was worth it.

"Welcome home, John."


	21. Friends and Piko

Hello everyone! I reached my 100th review last chapter, (broken by DoctorMerliena-WestwoodIsCool! :D Congrats!), and I would just like to thank everyone who has reviewed, and I never could've imagined that I would actually reach 100. :') Thank you guys so much. They always brighten my days so much.

Thank you._  
><em>

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><p><em>In fact, we do know the precise meaning of one of these markings: the small holes you see in the slab. In a birth ceremony which is sometimes still practiced today, one of these was made whenever a child was born, and the piko (the umbilical cord, which represented the child's spirit) of the child was put into the hole. This was done to ensure a tie to ancestral ground when the child died. A sort of root system if you will.<em>

"Wow." John said, awestruck by the information. "That is amazing." This was nice. He was thoroughly enjoying his day. He and Sherlock had talked about having an official off day away from each other in between cases. John had found a flier for a Hawaiian Cultural Exhibit the other day, and seeing as the chances of being ambushed by Hawaiian gangsters were very slim, he had decided to go. So far, everything he had seen had been incredible. Petroglyphs, the fire goddess Pele and her volcano, Kilauea, the green sand beaches of shattered peridot…it was all so interesting, and one of John's craziest dreams had always been that he would win the lottery and be able to go. But seeing as that was also incredibly unlikely, he had settled for the exhibit.

John shook his head in wonder, thinking to himself, *Sherlock would love this stuff. I'll have to tell him all about this later–wait. Why wait?

So he whipped out his phone and sent a quick text:

_Be honest, without looking it up on your phone, do you know what the Hawaiian piko is? -JW_

_Sherlock Holmes is typing…_

_No. Don't gloat. There are plenty of things I know that you don't. -SH_

John laughed, knowing that this was most definitely true. He typed out:

_Piko is the umbilical cord/spirit of a newborn kid. Hawaiians would carve small holes in lava rock and put it in to help the spirit return after the kid died. Cool, huh? -JW_

_Sherlock Holmes is typing…_

_Yes. Indeed, quite fascinating actually. I'll have to do more research on that later. Do you know the Hawaiians' belief of how Kilauea formed? -SH_

John very proud of the fact that he did know, replied:

_Yeah, Pele kept looking for somewhere to make a home where she wouldn't disturb her sister, the ocean/water. -JW_

_Very good. -SH_

_You enjoying your off day? -JW_

_Yes, actually. Yourself? -SH_

_Yeah. I am. Where did you go? -JW_

"Apparently in front of you." Said a deep voice that John didn't see (as he was reading Sherlock's response) until he bumped into its owner and almost fell over, but Sherlock caught his arm and he steadied himself.

John started laughing. "Figures. We just can't seem to get away from each other, can we?" He joked good-naturedly. He saw Sherlock's eyes crinkle as he smiled back, and continued, "Where were you gonna go next?"

"Actually, I was done. I've been through all of the displays that I wished to see."

John's face and spirit fell a little, "Oh." He said, feeling rather stupid.

"But…" Sherlock said slowly, "I was going to revisit the multicolored sand section. With the samples of black sand." He hadn't planned on it actually, but now that he had found John, he didn't want to say goodbye.

John looked down at the program he had picked up at the entrance. "That's the only one I haven't been to."

"May I accompany you?" Sherlock asked, and John looked at him as though he were thick.

"Course you can." And he gave a little smile to make sure Sherlock knew that he would in fact _enjoy_ his company; knowledge that warmed Sherlock's heart–just a tiny bit, but enough to make its presence undeniable–as they walked down the hallway towards the last exhibit.

_Together._

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><p>While I was on vacation, I went to the spa for the first time, consequently getting my first ever pedicure and facial. The woman who gave me my facial, Angeline, was a very wise and energetic woman, and we ended up talking about a lot of really interesting and important ideas. But my favorite was her description of a best friend. This is basically what she said:<p>

"That person who you might not see everyday or talk to all the time about how each other's day was, but whenever something terrible or really great happens, you want to call and tell them about it. Because you know it's important and you want them to know. Or…you know like when you go to a museum and you learn something really cool? And you're just like, 'Wow! That's amazing!'? I think the person you want to call and tell that cool thing you just learned is your best friend. I think _that's_ what a best friend is."

And it all just clicked. It makes perfect sense, and it was so profound to me that I came up with this idea. I hope you guys enjoyed it.


	22. Glass and Bandages

**Hello everyone! I know it's been quite a hiatus, especially after going from having a chapter a day to none at all. But things are about to get super hectic here (you see, God created this thing called the IB program to discourage youngsters like me from sinning), and exams are about to start for me. Big exams. And of course the studying for those exams. Of course, I'm not leaving indefinitely. But I just wanted you guys to be prepared for another couple of chapter-less weeks. I'll miss you guys, and I can't wait to start writing again (God knows I need it), but for now, just reread past chapters and see if you think I've improved! I love you all.**

**I imagine this as a friendship one. Not a romantic relationship one. Thought it'd be nice to get a definite bromance one out before I start writing more slash. Based on a picture on deviantart by Eneada called "Sherlock BBC Bandage" I think Sherlock will always be a little blind when it comes to this sort of thing. Hope you guys like it well enough to review.**

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><p>"Ow! John, that hurt!" Sherlock yelled and whined at John.<p>

_So this is what it had come to_, Sherlock thought bitterly. The world's only consulting detective, and one of its most brilliant inhabitants, reduced to a whinging, screaming child, just because of a few injuries. Specifically, glass in his feet. He felt so pathetic and weak.

John eyed him at these words, slight amusement etched into his raised eyebrow and subtle grin as he pulled another shard of glass from his friend's right foot (luckily, his left one had gone unscathed). He had been doing this for nearly an hour, and it hadn't been a pleasant affair for either one of them, he could tell you that much. Let's just say that picking glass out of his friend's dirty and bloody foot was not exactly his idea of a satisfying Saturday morning. And as if doing this wasn't unpleasant enough, every time he had removed a piece, it had always either resulted in Sherlock clenching his teeth, fists, or jaw, crying out in pain, yelling at John, groaning, or any combination thereof. And the fact that John got the tiniest hint of pleasure from knowing the man wasn't invincible wasn't enough to compensate for the fact that John had set out to do other more enjoyable things that morning.

It had scared John half to death when Sherlock had come home with one shoe, taken one step into the flat and fallen to his knees. He had been reading the paper, but had sprung to his feet the moment he saw his friend crumple to the floor, Sherlock's jaw tight as a drum in an attempt to bite back the pain.

John frowned as he found yet another piece, and began to work on pulling it out. "I suppose you're not going to tell me _what_ you were doing?"

"I don't expect you to understand, John. Just keep–Ah!" He grit his teeth as John extracted the shard and put it into the small bowl with the others.

"Try me."

But Sherlock merely crossed his arms and stuck out his lips in what was probably meant to be a strongly defiant way (whereas it just looked petulant to John), as though John were being unfair to even consider questioning his methods.

John snorted. "Alright then, don't." He leaned a little closer to Sherlock's heel.

"I just hate it when you do stuff like this." He said in a way that Sherlock could tell was a sort of muffled anger.

"I don't know what you–DAMMIT, JOHN!"

John wasn't going to lie, the rougher than necessary (and yet still safe) removal of that last shard had been deliberate.

"Damn you, John Watson!" Sherlock cursed, his voice much lower but with as much malice as he had had shouting.

John merely chuckled and got up, taking the bowl of glass bits to the rubbish bin and discarding them. He then opened one of the drawers in the kitchen and withdrew some bandages. He opened another and gathered a few cotton balls, and a bottle of rubbing alcohol. When he came back into the room where Sherlock was sitting lopsided in his armchair, his head tilted back as though he had seen something on the ceiling, he said to him, "Sherlock, I'm saying that you can't go doing things like this." He soaked one side of the cotton ball in the rubbing alcohol and sat back down in his own chair in front of Sherlock's foot, and began to apply it to the cut and bloody heel. Sherlock hissed at the contact, but said nothing.

"I just hate it when you do stuff like this." He reiterated. "When you go off on your own and don't even think to bring someone else with you."

There was a long pause and John could practically _hear_ Sherlock putting the pieces together.

After a while, Sherlock finally spoke. "Why does it matter to you? Did your attending to my injury cause you to postpone any activity of personal importance to you? Am I interrupting something?"

John shook his head. "Nope." He began to wrap a bandage around the wound, and then a second.

"Then…Mycroft has paid you to attend to my maladies."

John laughed as he started to gently (but firmly) wrap the final bandage around Sherlock's ankle to hold the others in place. "Not in a million years, Sherlock."

Sherlock pressed his hands together, as he always did when he was thinking, and John looked at him to see when the recognition would dawn on him. It only took a few seconds, but Sherlock's eyebrows went up and he parted his hands.

"Yes, Sherlock. It's cause I bloody care about you. And what you do. And more importantly, what you do to yourself."

"That's…definitely different. Somewhat surprising actually."

"Yeah well…" He trailed off.

Sherlock looked at John, and said, "Thank you," rather slowly, as though he was not used to meaning it. Or at least, not in such an intimate context.

John gave a weak smile, but did not meet Sherlock's gaze, instead he merely gave the undamaged part of Sherlock's ankle a gentle but compassionate squeeze and left the room–leaving Sherlock to ponder the idea that someone not bound by familial tie cared about his health. It was strange.

But he liked it a great deal.


	23. Hot Showers

**Prom tonight! :D So excited! I know I said that I wouldn't be posting for a few weeks, but I guess I should say, don't expect regular, timed updates. Hope you like. ツ Also, don't hesitate to toss around some ideas in your reviews. I'd love some fresh grist.**

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><p>"Sherlock? I'm more than willing to play along–seriously, by all means, keep going–but I have to ask–"<p>

Sherlock merely purred and John had to shake his head a little to clear his thoughts. Though he certainly wasn't arguing with his current position–pinned against a wall underneath Sherlock–he was understandably confused.

"Are you feeling alright? I mean, I've only just–"

"Gotten out of a very hot shower. So hot in fact, that you didn't put on your robe, only a towel to cover your lower half."

"Well, yeah–"

"And so hot, that even a minute and 20 seconds later I can still see that your skin is red from where the water scalded you–especially here." Sherlock said, and he pressed his lips to the top of John's shoulder. He smiled when John hummed a mix between a moan and a chuckle. As quick to respond to flirtation as ever, John never had been the blushing, chaste type. Just another thing that Sherlock loved about him: he was quick–to catch on and to play.

"Mm…feels nice." John said to him, as matter-of-factly as though he were commenting on a new blend of tea. "Cold lips. Hot skin. Nice combination. We should really do something about that shower though." The bloody thing was incredibly temperamental, and although most days it behaved, today it had given John the choice between scorching and freezing.

"You really should fix it." Sherlock said absentmindedly, lightly brushing his fingers through John's still wet hair.

"Maybe you should." He countered.

"Oh please, John, I have more important things to do than dirty my hands with mindless chores." Sherlock let his hand drift down to trace the water droplets on John's right shoulder, watching them absorb one another and roll down the man's biceps.

"Oh yeah?" John chuckled disbelievingly. "Like what?"

"Like making sure my blogger never leaves. He's rather feisty. Definitely a full time job."

He had intended it to be an innocuous, teasing comment, but John could see the very small (and still very real) flicker of fear in his eyes. John caught the hand that had been stroking his skin and entwined his fingers with Sherlock's. He let his other hand cup Sherlock's cheek and he stared into his eyes. He needed Sherlock to know that he was genuine.

"You never have to worry about that. I promise. If I had any interest in leaving…"

"I wouldn't stop you." Sherlock finished softly.

"Which is why I'll never leave." John said firmly, and he brought Sherlock's face to his own and kissed him slowly, to make sure that Sherlock knew just how impossible it would be for him to ever leave.


	24. Arabesque Dreams

_The noise was awful. So much screaming. Bullets peppering the sky and land with their sound. A child crying somewhere._

_John had grown accustomed to the sounds, as horrible as it was. But it was all so…rapid. That was the only word for it. So much going on at once, and so fast. He couldn't stand it. And more than that, he couldn't focus. He hated feeling like this, normally he could hone in on his tasks, but today he seemed completely unable to keep his attention on one thing. His mind kept wandering. He couldn't get into his zone. And this was important._

_This was war. There were people dying, and he couldn't bring himself to concentrate._

_It was all so overwhelming._

_And then he saw something that finally caught his attention. A child. Small. Black hair and pale face dirtied with soot, along with the most striking blue green eyes. He looked absolutely desperate, but unlike everything else, was completely silent. He said nothing. No screams. No pleas. Nothing._

_John was entranced. He couldn't look away. And for a few moments that truly felt like years of relief to his ringing ears, he just stared at the boy, and it seemed that the whole world went silent._

_"Watson! Look out!" Jackson's voice shouted from his left, shattering his contact with the boy. He turned just in time to feel a bullet rip straight through his left shoulder._

"Oh God!" He gasped, bolting upright, and the scar on his left shoulder throbbing in pain. He pressed his right hand against the old wound and willed his heart to slow, hoping that just this once he would be able to immediately go back to sleep.

He didn't of course, the pain of the dream still felt incredibly real to his shoulder, as though it really had just been freshly shot. So instead he just lay there for a few minutes, panting hard and trying not to think about the atrocities in the dream–and how he had seen them in real life.

"John?" A low, confused but caring voice inquired. Quietly, like he wasn't sure that John was truly awake, John thought to himself, and that idea made him smile.

"Yeah, Sherlock. I'm awake."

Sherlock pushed the door open timidly, holding his violin and bow in the other hand.

"How'd you know I was awake?"

"I heard you gasp and stopped playing." Sherlock said as he sat on the bed.

"You?" John scoffed, raising an eyebrow and smiling. "You don't notice when I leave the flat, but you heard me _gasp_?" John chuckled, amused at the idea. Sherlock didn't normally lie about things like this, but he found it incredibly difficult to believe that the frequently oblivious Sherlock had heard him wake up–especially while practicing the violin.

At this, Sherlock looked rather sheepish, and spoke in a low voice, as though he were worried about anybody else hearing. "John, I…" he looked at the floor. "I miss you terribly when I notice that you're gone. More than you know. You're an essential element to this flat, and I don't enjoy acknowledging the fact that you often leave. I don't like to think about you not being here, so I stopped noticing."

Sherlock looked up to see that John's amused expression had softened into one of warm affection. Encouraged by this, he continued.

"When you're here I pay a great deal more attention to you than you think. And I try not to give you too many reasons to want to leave. So I listen very carefully when I feel compelled to practice my violin in the morning, as I know how much people like you enjoy your sleep." John rolled his eyes good-naturedly at this. Compared to Sherlock's other comments on his normality, that one had been positively innocuous.

"But of course, I'm quite familiar with your sleep pattern, especially this past week as I've been playing every morning, and this time was rather irregular in the fact that I could hear you breathing heavily. As well as the great amount of tossing around in your bed that I also heard."

"You've been practicing your violin every morning this week?" John said, shocked.

"Yes." Sherlock said, and then he smiled. "I must say, for a soldier, you're a rather heavy sleeper."

"And for an absentminded prick you're rather sweet." John shot back, smiling as well.

They laughed at that before Sherlock asked what John knew was the inevitable, "What were you dreaming of?"

John gave a heavy sigh, recalling those days gone by that he had dreamt of, of gunshots and blood, of deserts and bodies. "War. It was just awful. And there was a kid, who looked like you come to think of it. Weird." John mused for a moment, wondering if Sherlock really had looked like that when he was younger.

Sherlock inched a bit closer to him, "What woke you?"

"I got shot." John said grimly, and he tapped the scar on his left shoulder.

Sherlock's face darkened, angry at the idea of anyone deliberately hurting his partner, and he leaned forward to kiss the marred skin. John smiled, no one had ever kissed his scar except Sherlock. He liked that. "Now that's _definitely_ not going to help me fall asleep. But that's lovely, by all means keep going." He laughed.

"Mm…" Sherlock moaned into his flesh. "Then I'll most certainly desist." But he left half a dozen or so kisses across his collarbone before he pulled back. John pretended to pout.

"No, no." Sherlock argued when he saw his expression. "John Watson needs his rest."

"Are you saying I'm ugly or something?" He joked.

But Sherlock surprised him by stroking his cheek. "No. I've always thought the bags under your eyes give you character. I think you're fantastic just the way you are."

John wasn't used to romantic-Sherlock, but he had to admit, he was really enjoying it. He turned his lips towards Sherlock's hand and kissed the inside of the hand that rested on his cheek.

"Nightmares have the tendency to make people not want to sleep, Sherlock."

Sherlock turned around and picked up his violin (unfortunately breaking the contact between him and John), bringing it to his chin as he did so. He leaned forward a bit with a conspiratorial look in his eye, as though he were letting John in on a very exclusive bit of information.

"And melodies do exactly the opposite."

And he played, something so wonderful that John instantly felt his eyes close, and it felt so good. Soothing and perfect. Just like the beautifully light notes that twirled and spun together from Sherlock's strings, that were joining hands and dancing, jumping, gracefully gliding across the room. The fences and enclosures of John's mind had been weakened by fatigue, and his imagination ran wild. He pictured ballet dancers, trailed by ribbons and sunsets. He knew how absolutely ridiculous this vision was, this fantasy that Sherlock's sweet notes had induced, but he was much too tired to care. All he cared about was how beautiful it was, and how much he loved to hear Sherlock play.

And that was the last thing he remembered thinking about–he and Sherlock, together, engulfed in a melody, and Sherlock so dazzling that he couldn't believe he was his–before he fell asleep. Hours of uninterrupted dreams of beauty and his love.

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><p><em><strong>The song was "Arabesque 1" by Claude Debussy. It's so beautiful, seriously go check it out guys. I know it's the first time in a while for me posting to this story, and I want to thank everyone for being so patient with me. Exams have been rigorous and I'm so glad it's all over. And it's just…<strong>_

_**Tuesday I graduated from High School. I just…what a year. You all have been so supportive and I'm nowhere close to done with writing these or anything, but I want to thank you each so much. For your patience and reviews. Thank you. Words can't express how much I love you all. Through these past awful, best-friend-less seven years…this past year, **_**you**_ **guys have been my best friends. And I can't thank you enough.  
><strong>_

_**But thank you. So so much.**_


	25. Tabletop Pinned

"Oh…yes!" Sherlock shouted, clapping his hands together and smiling triumphantly. "Of course he would do that, he can't help but gain back the confidence he feels that he's lost from the castration so–oh yes! It all makes so much sense!"

"Sherlock! What makes sense?" Lestrade said, raising his voice in the hopes of shaking Sherlock from his excited daze.

"Collins is going to the place where it all happened. To him it's symbolic justice."

"Which is where…?" John asked, looking at Lestrade, equally bewildered by Sherlock's epiphany.

"Oh for God's sake. Have none of you been paying attention? The Tube!"

Lestrade's eyes widened and he immediately whipped his mobile from his pocket.

"I need a team at the South Kensington Tube station immediately. Yeah. It's urgent. We've got a embezzling murderer hiding out there, waiting for his next victim. Go. Hurry. I'll meet you there." He turned to Sherlock. "Any further tips on where to look?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Believe me. Not an original mind. Nor a discreet one. Probably just sitting on the benches, not even bothering to hide, waiting for his victim. Much too confident that he won't be found to consider hiding somewhere not in sight of the entrance."

"D'you hear that?" Lestrade asked whoever was on the other line. He nodded. "Good. I'll be there in about five." He hung up. "Alright, boys. Let's go." He said, gesturing to Sherlock and John as he put his phone back in his pocket.

"We'll be right behind you. Ten minutes at the latest." Sherlock said quickly, clasping his hands together and assuming the look that he always did when he was in deep thought.

"Got it." And with that Lestrade fled the room, but John was confused. Why weren't they going with Lestrade now?

"Sherlock? What's going on? Why aren't we going with Lestrade?" He asked, but to no avail, for Sherlock merely walked over to the door and looked outside into the hallway. When he appeared to be satisfied with that, he shut the door.

John's eyebrows rose in shock when Sherlock turned around with such passionate hunger gripping his countenance that John felt as though he were being undressed by Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock took a few steps towards him, and John instinctively took a few backwards.

"What's going on?" He repeated, this time a bit more forceful, but then the carnal look in Sherlock's eyes dropped so quickly that John questioned whether or not he had imagined the look in the first place.

Sherlock walked towards him again and this time John moved out of his way, with Sherlock walking directly to a table that held a few beakers and papers, and John chiding himself for mistaking Sherlock's interest in the contents of the table for lust. Sherlock shuffled through them, pushing some of the equipment to the further end of the table, apparently searching for something.

John approached the table and touched Sherlock's shoulder. "What do you need me to do?"

Sherlock spun on his heel and turned to face John, sitting on the table as he did so. He pressed his palms together again and looked intensely at the floor for a few moments. Then he clucked his tongue and gripped the table with his hands.

"John, I haven't been completely honest with you."

Silence hung in the air for a few seconds. John pursed his lips and crossed his arms. "Well, that's new." He said sarcastically. "Suddenly grown a conscience, have you?"

"Not quite." And then there it was again–lust. Lust as he smiled devilishly. John didn't have much time to think about it before Sherlock wrapped his legs around John's waist and let himself fall down onto the table, bringing John with him (and on top of him). John brought his hands out instinctively to break his fall as he felt his feet slip out from under him, pressing his hips into Sherlock's–

Alright. Definitely lust. No question about it.

To say that John was shocked was an understatement. But to say that his proximity to Sherlock's slightly blushing cheeks and that being trapped by the detective did not tickle his fancy would be untrue. And he was positively dazzled by Sherlock's face. So excited, so aroused. He looked so much younger–not physically younger, but more like a flushed, hormonal teenager. It was a look of unadulterated passion, an expression that John had not seen since his own teenage years.

It was a breathtaking look for him.

Then he regained a bit of his senses when he heard one of the beakers (presumably pushed off the table by their fall) crash to the floor and shatter.

"Sherlock, can you not do this here?" John straightened himself up to glance nervously at the door. "Someone will see."

But Sherlock grabbed John by the lapels and pulled his attention and body back to the detective.

He threw his head back, exposing his smooth and pale neck as he practically whined, and in a much higher tone than usual asked, "Is that an order, Captain?" Purring the last word.

John wasn't the blushing type. He was usually quick to pick up on flirtation, and equally as quick to respond to it, but this was different. They were in the middle of a case! Literally in the middle of a crime scene! Had Sherlock gone mad? Sherlock, who had his legs wrapped around him and his blogger pressed to his chest, certainly did not look mad, in fact, he looked rather pleased with himself and the situation. But still, John couldn't help the heat he felt capture his face.

"Sherlock! For god's sake! We're at a crime scene!"

"Why is that relevant, Captain?"

"Stop calling me that! Seriously! Bloody hell, Sherlock! Lestrade's gonna–"

This time, Sherlock gripped onto John's shirt with one hand and the back of the man's neck with the other, causing their lips to crash together rather violently, and the initial resistance that Sherlock had felt from John melted after a mere two seconds of contact with Sherlock's enthusiastic lips. Sherlock committed the time to memory to test in future arguments, meanwhile running his hands first down John's neck and then working on the buttons of his shirt. John broke the kiss when he felt this, and they both greeted each other with glassy, warm eyes.

John gulped, breathing a little harder than usual. "You told Lestrade ten minutes."

"Yes. Yes I did."

"Then shouldn't we get going?" John posed, although he knew what both of them really wanted to do. (And due to their proximity to each other's hips, he knew that Sherlock knew this fact as well).

"I suppose so, yes."

Neither spoke for a few seconds.

"I've got a better idea of what to do. We could stay here. Wrap up any evidence." John said quickly.

"Yes, definitely." Sherlock agreed. The case was over to him–Collins had been dull and predictable down to the very last detail. Despite having pretended to act surprised and enthralled for John and Lestrade, he had actually been bored for quite a while, only playing up the finale to hurry Lestrade from the room. So that he could finally have John to himself again.

This case had gone on too long for his taste. Too much dull Collins and worried Lestrade and not enough John for his taste.

"And you know," John said, stroking one of Sherlock's cheeks, and putting on the look that he knew told Sherlock that _he_ was in charge. "I bet Lestrade would love to arrest the bloke himself without you there." He leaned forward and nibbled Sherlock's earlobe playfully. "Buzzing in his ear the whole time."

Sherlock moaned in agreement. John had obviously abandoned his apprehension, of which he was very glad.

"Any other ideas…" He smiled. "Captain?"

"Oh, I've got a few, Corporal." And John smiled back, one hand cradling the back of Sherlock's neck as he pulled him in for another kiss, and the other hand lighting Sherlock's abdomen afire as it drifted down to his belt buckle.

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><p><strong>Reviews make me oh so very happy. Based on a picture done by Reapersun.<br>**


	26. Spoiled Brie

**Sorry for the long waits! I'm still alive, I'm just so tired, and I've been so incredibly busy you guys. But I miss your reviews. I really do. I miss getting them in my email. And I miss writing. I've got summer reading and a boyfriend who's taking up my time now. Sorry. I promise to try and do at least one chapter a week. I love you guys.**

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><p>"You know…this is nice." John said, looking at his menu. He took a quick, subtle glance around the restaurant and smiled. "I mean, I didn't think you actually liked food. I hardly see you eat."<p>

"The mind works best when it is starved of food."

"Speaking as a doctor and the sanest member of our flat, I want you to know that they disproved that idea at the beginning of the 20th century."

"That's your opinion, John." Sherlock said indifferently.

John gave an amused laugh. "Medical journals, Sherlock. It's not my opinion, it's scientific fact!"

"And that is your opinion."

John shook his head, and their waiter came by their table to deliver the wine John had ordered for them. "Thank you, sir. Could you by any chance bring us a children's menu? My companion doesn't look it, but he's actually only eight years old."

The waiter merely rolled his eyes and made a rather noticeable sound of disdain before walking away from their table. John was rather taken aback by this. Openly obnoxious waiters were rare.

"No laugh no tip." John shrugged and went back to looking at his menu. Had he looked up he would've seen that Sherlock was smiling from the comment regarding the tip.

"You're definitely getting something tonight though, yeah?" John said to him.

"Oh well, I'll have to wait for my child's menu to get here, won't I?"

John smiled.

"But yes. I am."

"Good. Oh!" John said, raising his eyebrows. "They've got brie. Lovely. Love brie. My parents used to eat it all the time as a late night snack. With apples and biscuits."

Sherlock smiled–he always enjoyed hearing about John's childhood. It was nice to know that John trusted him with such private knowledge. Albeit this particular information wasn't exactly sensitive, it was nonetheless private, and Sherlock believed that the principle behind sharing it with him still held firm. Its symbolism was not wasted on him. He was interrupted from this train of thought when the waiter came back to their table, and Sherlock took the opportunity to order the first course. The waiter nodded and gave a small smile before leaving.

Interesting, Sherlock thought to himself. He's treating me with significantly more respect than John. Sherlock frowned, and John chose that exact moment to look up from his menu.

"Problem?" He asked, his eyebrows raised.

Sherlock sighed, contemplation stretched across his drawn eyebrows and tight mouth. John knew better than to inquire. If it was going to be life threatening–whatever it was he was thinking about so hard–all he could do was hope that he would have at least a few seconds of advanced warning. But for now, he decided not to let it bother him.

Meanwhile, Sherlock was still mulling over his earlier observation about the waiter's surly treatment of John. He could solve crimes in a matter of hours, he had the ability to recall countless, seemingly meaningless details, he was the only one holding his profession, and without a doubt in his mind, the most intelligent being in England–but he couldn't understand why anyone would–how anyone could dislike John Watson. Or even how they would have any grounds to besides just being a contemptible person. He couldn't see anything wrong with John, (nothing that would bother ordinary people at least, with the same level of intellect).

"Excuse me, sir." Said the waiter to alert Sherlock of his return, as he placed the plate of warm brie and fruit on their table. He left again, and John immediately, (though trying very hard to appear nonchalant) began slicing off a wedge of the cheese and spreading it onto a biscuit.

"Sherlock, this stuff is so good." He was gushing, and he knew it, but he couldn't help himself. "I love warm brie, such good mem–" He stopped cold. Sherlock looked up, surprised by this. He had been anticipating excitement to be on John's face at the arrival of the dish, but instead he was met with a crestfallen expression, as well as slight disgust.

"What's the matter?" Sherlock asked.

"It's wrong." John said. Momentarily stunned, and then he realized how idiotic he was being, how he was letting himself get upset about cheese, and he let his disappointment take the form of anger. He clenched his fists. "The brie has gone bad. Excuse me?" He raised his arm a bit to catch the attention of their waiter.

"Are you enjoying the brie, sir?"

Sherlock watched carefully as John flexed his fingers and tightened them into a fist as he spoke.

"Well, I would if it hadn't gone bad before it even got to our table."

Sherlock saw the waiter's eyes do a quick scan of John's body, and suddenly it all made sense: as Sherlock had surprised him with this dinner, John was wearing his striped jumper. Not to mention the fact that the reservation had been made by his brother, a patron of the restaurant, known for his prestige and wealth. And so when Sherlock had shown up, with his tailored suit and reservation, it had been obvious to the waiter that Sherlock was someone with money, someone to be respected. He was obviously someone important. And yet…here was John. Wearing a jumper and scuffed up shoes, with bags under his eyes, while everyone else wore suits and diamonds. The waiter thought he was scum. Sherlock felt his blood boil at the idea of John, his John, being thought of as trash based only on his appearance.

The waiter looked at John from head to toe, and put on an incredibly oily smile, as though he were explaining etiquette to a child covered in mud.

"Sir, brie is supposed to smell like that. I know that it's a little odd, but I assure you–"

Sherlock couldn't remember how that sentence ended, not after seeing the look of pure astonishment on John's face. Not to mention rage.

"Alright, you eat it then." John said snippily, grabbing the plate and shoving it towards the man's face.

The waiter raised his eyebrows and rolled his eyes, making a move to grab the knife off of the plate to slice off some of the cheese, but then he stopped dead. He had smelled it, and from the look on his face, Sherlock knew that the brie had indeed spoiled. He quickly recovered, and leaned back, tucking his hands behind his back, visibly miffed to have been proven wrong by what he thought was a simpleton.

"I'll just take this plate back to the kitchen and bring you a new one–"

"Don't bother." Sherlock said sharply, interrupting him. He stood from the table and picked his coat up from the back of his chair. "Such service will not be tolerated."

The waiter looked incredibly flustered. "But, sir!"

"John? Angelo's?"

"Sounds lovely." John said, standing from the table and grabbing his own jacket.

And with that, they left the waiter, still holding the plate of rotten brie, looking utterly and completely shocked.

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><p>"Sherlock?"<p>

"Mm?"

"Why did you want to leave? I mean, it was obviously an expensive place, and I was willing to put up with that complete arse of a waiter."

Sherlock stopped walking and John did the same. He looked up to see John's expectant eyes trained on him, waiting for an explanation.

"Because you're worth much more to me than that." Sherlock said sincerely.

John couldn't help but grin at Sherlock's chivalry, and they started walking again. John didn't say anything in reply, and neither of them thought he needed to. They both just knew.

"I hope there isn't a long wait at Angelo's. I'm starving."

"You could've waited for new brie, John." Sherlock jabbed good naturedly.

"Do you want to go back?" John asked, knowing the answer.

"Not a chance." And with that they both laughed, enjoying the rest of their walk to Angelo's, as well as the rest of their night together.

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><p><strong>I'm a starving artist. Feed me reviews.<strong>


	27. The Freak Composer

**Today is my birthday. I'm 18. So I wrote this as a birthday present to myself and to all of my wonderful readers. Not as long as usual, but I hope you like it.**

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><p>John was woken up early that Friday morning–2:38 AM according to the clock sitting on his night stand)–by Sherlock's violin. Considering it a trifle odd, as Sherlock usually only practiced at such horrid hours when they were working on a case and he needed to clear his head, John got up and decided to investigate. Sherlock was wearing the robe usually reserved for weekend mornings, when being fully dressed wasn't mandatory. He was also apparently too intent on his music to hear his flatmate coming down the stairs and into the living room, so John, knowing better than to disturb him, simply leaned against the door frame, allowing himself to listen to the lovely notes that issued from his friend's instrument. He was hardly ever able to express the pure joy he felt from hearing the detective play. Whenever he did, he always wondered how anyone could consider this man a freak. How could anyone who produced something so beautiful, be called such? Of course, he knew full well that Sherlock didn't exactly go around serenading everyone with the angelic music John so often was privileged enough to hear, and John found himself smiling, very much aware of the fact that indeed it was a privilege to see this side of Sherlock.<p>

This train of thought was interrupted when Sherlock struck an unpleasant chord and swore quietly. John chuckled, and Sherlock visibly tensed.

"Careful, Sherlock." His voice velvet with mirth as he walked over to his favorite armchair and sat down. "Swearing at your instrument won't help improve the music."

Sherlock spun around wildly, obviously surprised and dismayed at seeing John.

"John! What are you doing here?" He asked, as though the idea was positively ludicrous.

"I live here, remember?"

"How long have you been here?" He demanded.

"A couple of years. Ever since our first case."

Sherlock rolled his yes, "Don't be an idiot, John. Or at least no more than you can help. I meant, how long have you been listening to me play?"

He shrugged nonchalantly, "About a minute or two. I haven't heard that one before, what are you composing for? That's not usual for you."

Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh and stomped his foot. "I got up this early so that you wouldn't know." He seemed to be talking to himself more than he was to John.

"Why? I don't usually mind. It was nice. What's it for?"

"You."

"Me what?" John said, not understanding.

"It's for your birthday. I'm composing something for your birthday. I was trying to practice at a time when I know you're usually in a deep, undisturbable sleep. Obviously those efforts have been in vain."

John was still confused. "But…my birthday isn't for another month. What are you doing composing now?"

"Honestly, John, do you expect me to just scribble down a few grace notes and triplets the night before?" He turned back around, suppressing the urge to say "I want it to be perfect."

But for some reason, he didn't need to. John knew that that had been exactly what Sherlock had meant, and he smiled at that. And though Sherlock couldn't see him smile with his back turned, Sherlock knew that he was, and he allowed himself a brief smile as well.

"I guess you want me to go back to bed, and pretend that I've forgotten?"

"Preferably, yes."

John found the idea amusing and childish, but he knew he'd comply anyway. "Good night then, Sherlock."

"Good morning, John." He corrected.

"Yes, but I'm going to bed, so what's the point?" He replied, and he climbed up the stairs before Sherlock could come up with a retort. In the ten or fifteen minutes he spent reflecting before he fell asleep, he found himself yet again thinking about the beautiful song that had been born in his honor, and just how much of a freak Sherlock Holmes wasn't.

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><p><strong>Reviews mean the world to me.<strong>


	28. A Bit Loony

**Sorry that I've been gone so long. I've started college and it's been fantastic, but I've actually been quite busy. Recently I haven't been writing Johnlock because I just haven't been possessed by the writing bug that I usually feel, most likely because it was the summer and I didn't get a lot of human interaction and therefore, not as much inspiration. But hopefully now that I'm around a lot of people on a daily basis again, my inspiration will decide to visit me again.**

**Thank you all for sticking with me. I'm guessing they're worth the wait, otherwise you wouldn't stick with me. ;)**

**I would also like to make it clear that I knew, and used the word "coitus" _before_ I was really old enough to avidly watch the _Big Bang Theory_ like I do now. Anyways. I knew coitus before it was cool.**

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><p>Since they had started engaging in coitus on a regular basis, the domestic lives of the two men residing in flat 221B had gone a bit loony. Anyone would've thought that Sherlock's condescending nature would've permanently ensured that any deliberate manipulation of the other flatmate would be carried out by him. But this ended up not being the case. For John, who already had more of a handle on the man than anyone ever had before, had found that such intimate knowledge of his flatmate as hearing him moan and sometimes scream with pleasure, was more than enough to give John an edge in their relationship. That was the problem with distinctive and severe personalities like Sherlock–it made it easy to see variations.<p>

And seeing Sherlock in such vulnerable (and atypical) instances as when he was writhing under the doctor's touch, made those moments not only incredibly special to John, but also shattered the illusion that his friend was not human. And as John found the pieces of the machine that everyone thought Sherlock was lying at his feet, he gained dominance. There was a power shift. A power shift that made the politics of their flat much more equal. After all, John was incredibly experienced in this sort of thing and well…although not a literal virgin anymore, remained one in the social aspect of their affair.

And so John had developed a recent habit of wielding this knowledge over him, finding it great fun.

Not to mention it was easy. Oh it was _so_ easy to rile him up.

And John bloody _loved_ it.

One rainy afternoon in particular, Sherlock had been bored out of his mind, what with the lull in their most recent case, put on hold by monstrous weather. Sherlock found it enormously frustrating that no one was willing to put up with what he had called "a little rain," and he had bothered Lestrade to such an extent in the early hours of the morning that the man eventually had threatened to send over the dark haired man's brother to keep him company if he didn't stop badgering him.

Needless to say it had been effective, and Lestrade was now undoubtedly enjoying a peaceful and relaxing day, but the same could not be said of John, who still had to put up with a large amount of childish flouncing and huffing. John was in the process of recording the developments in the case for his blog, but he could never quite settle into his usual rhythm, what with Sherlock stomping around the flat and slamming doors.

It was driving him bonkers. But he thought that perhaps he could find a way to get back at Sherlock and make the time go by a little faster.

John finally saw his opportunity when Sherlock flopped down on the couch whilst giving a dramatic sigh. John closed his laptop and walked over to him, sitting down on the coffee table.

"Lovely weather we're having." He said cheerily.

Sherlock glared daggers at him.

John couldn't help but laugh. "Oh come on, Sherlock. It's not so bad!"

"Not so–" Sherlock spluttered. "I am plagued by the worst kind of sloth: potential. I'm in the middle of an interesting puzzle and I've hit a rut, because apparently everyone involved in this case is a SPINELESS BEING afraid of WATER!" He yelled, slamming his hands on the coffee table. John merely raised his eyebrows. As Sherlock settled back into his spot with his legs open, John propped his right leg up on the couch, just a few inches away from Sherlock's pajama clad thigh.

"That's right, mate. Get it all out." John waved his hand, as if to brush Sherlock's complaints away.

And so it went back and forth like this for several minutes. John would make a cheerful and dismissive comment, Sherlock would retaliate and take all of his frustration and rage out on John (which left the former man a little more breathless with each turn), and John would just take it, his foot inching closer and closer to Sherlock's leg with each quip. When he finally made contact, John felt it with his entire body, like all of his nerves had decided to focus on this single sensation. The anticipation had only served to intensify the seemingly innocuous touching. It was killing him now, but he fought to keep from letting it show.

He slowly started to rub his foot against his flatmate's skin, and John could see that it was indeed having an effect. Sherlock's jaw would randomly flex, little breaths would punctuate the middle of his sentences as though he had been sprinting, he would blink a few more times than usual, his voice deepened, and after a while he even dug his nails into the couch. In fact, John was so busy enjoying his reactions that he hardly had time to register Sherlock's growl before the man lunged at him, a force that left half of him hanging off the relatively small table he'd been sitting on.

"Stop it." Sherlock hissed.

"Stop what?" John said innocently, only to be "punished" by a rough attack on his lips that left them a little swollen afterwards.

"You know _exactly_ 'what,' John Watson." He spat. "It's cruel to do this to me and it shouldn't even be possible. To have _such_ command over me with such _small_ action. I am better than this."

"_Are_ you?" John challenged.

Sherlock gave a sulking pout.

John smiled. "Well, I figured that this would be a lot more fun than having to listen to you be an annoying git all day."

Sherlock yanked on the front of John's jumper, raising his head closer to him.

"You're going to pay for that, Doctor."

"Not if I make you pay first."


	29. Raw Hands

**I am so so sorry. I've had a huge writer's block these past two months, and what's been happening is that I'll start an idea for stress relief and then just leave it half finished, sitting in my notebook. I know I haven't really posted anything and one of my resolutions this year is to post at least one story/chapter every month. I've missed writing and hearing from you guys so much.**

**I hope you enjoy this, based on a picture over on DA called "Skating" by Elocinaqui.**

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><p>"John, don't–no. No, don't straighten your legs! Keep them bent, limber. I know they're not naturally in such an inflexible position. And for God's sakes, you have to put one foot in front of the other, you can't keep them even like you've got them now, or you're going to–"<p>

John swung his arms wildly about him again. "I'm sorry, but not all of us have had skating lessons since we were infants, alright? And when I bend my legs, I fall over!"

Sherlock chuckled darkly. "Yes, but you're also not moving."

Very slowly and with much caution, John lowered his bare hands onto the ice in front of him, crouching down on his hands and knees with no vestiges of grace. He looked up at the smug detective. "Oh don't give me that look, you git."

Sherlock feigned a look of innocence, one that didn't quite extend to his tone. "I don't know what you mean."

"That look like I'm your…" John hesitated. Then lowered his voice. "Like I'm your slave."

"That's rather mild of you, John."

"Well, there are children about." He nodded toward the group of kids who had at that very moment skated past them. He shifted to sit on his bum, so that he could blow warm air onto his cold, raw hands. He'd neglected to bring gloves.

Sherlock noticed of course, and with an elegance that John found both arousing and aggravating, he did a sort of backward stride over to where he was sitting, kneeling down next to him with all the nimbleness and ease that John had lacked when he had done the same task. He swiftly removed his gloves and handed them to him

"Oh come on." John scoffed, embarrassed by the kind gesture.

"John. If you don't, I will put them on you myself."

John was surprised to find Sherlock's eyes filled with genuine concern as opposed to condescension, and he knew the man was telling the truth.

"And we're done here." Sherlock skated behind him and hoisted him up by his underarms.

"Jesus Christ, that was not pleasant." John hissed when he retained his balance.

Sherlock turned to face him, taking both of his hands in his, gently pulling him along towards the edge of the rink, again, skating backwards.

"I know you're doing that to show off, but since it's helping me I'm not going to complain."

"So doing a few superfluous laps around the rink to show my skill would upset you?"

John laughed. "Yes. Of course, there's always the alternative."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"We skip the showboating routine, and go back to the flat. I'm freezing." He leaned closer to whisper in his friend's ear. "Any ideas on how to get me warm again?"

The man shivered.

"I have a few. They all involve minimal clothing, if any."

They smiled at each other.

"Sounds fantastic."


	30. Secrets

**I think I'll do this will be the new schedule: chapters or other stories on the 1st, and 15th of every month. Sound good to everybody? There might be extenuating circumstances, and I reserve the right to post more.**

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><p>The first time that John acted on his feelings toward Sherlock, was on a Tuesday night, (or perhaps early Wednesday morning), on one of the occasions where the detective was so deeply absorbed in his own mind, that he was oblivious to the outside world. The times when he forgot that John had left three hours ago or that he was in another city.<p>

John did it this way on purpose, as a test run. To see if he himself would like it. They had been working on a case, and the sleep deprivation and adrenaline rushes from just a few hours earlier had made John incredibly impulsive. He wasn't thinking straight, and so after Sherlock's mumbling had ceased to contemplative silence, his hands together to his lips, hunched over in his arm chair as usual, John came up behind him. He clenched his fists to steady himself, the nerves running through his body as rampant and as strongly as they had when he was a teen.

He stopped. Maybe this was a bad idea. He turned his head away and his body almost followed suit.

_Do it now, Watson, or you'll lose your nerve_, he scolded himself.

He pressed a kiss to the back of the man's head. It was brief. And light. The thing that John remembered the most was how soft Sherlock's hair was, how gently it had brushed past his cheeks. It wasn't as if he had expected it to be greasy or dirty, in fact, he hadn't expected it to be something he would even be aware of at all.

The second time he did it he wasn't as nervous, but still just as cautious. The third time a little less of both. It had become a habit by the time he and Sherlock were actually a couple. John didn't even worry about it anymore. It was just one of the things that he did that Sherlock never noticed. It was just a thing that felt like a part of their home to John. He didn't feel the need to tell Sherlock about it either, even after they started dating.

But Sherlock did notice. He'd noticed all along. He remembered every single time John's lips touched him. And maybe someday, John would notice the very small smile that would appear on Sherlock's face whenever he did. But for now, Sherlock wanted to let John keep his secrets.


	31. Dust

**Jeez, this semester is going to be a lot busier than I thought. I know how pathetic this is, and I beg your forgiveness, but I might only be able to do one chapter a month. I'm sorry. Life is…hectic right now. It was hard to write this one. I'm feeling the crush of not having new material for Sherlock and John, I need season 3. All I can say is, I'm trying for you guys.**

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><p>"So the body was found inside the house on the first floor." Lestrade filled Sherlock and John in as they made their way from the car to the door of aforementioned house. "Nobody's lived here for a couple of years apparently, the flatmates had a falling out and they both moved out within a couple of days of each other, and since these houses are so far removed from the city, nobody wants to move into any of them. Especially considering the shape it's in now."<p>

"Do you know who it is?" John asked.

"Not yet."

"Why mention the previous tenants then?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows, doubtful of Lestrade's answer.

"Well, the neighbor is the one who found the body. He's a retired cop, lived here for about a decade, so he remembers the two blokes. He _thinks_ it might be one of them, but he knew not to disturb the crime scene so he didn't check. But he's already agreed to come take a look at the morgue."

Once they walked in John had to fight the urge to cover his hands. It was one of those houses that gave an immediate sense of toxicity: a thick layer of grimy dust coated every visible surface, the few rays of sunlight that entered the room only illuminated more filth, and the air felt heavy with illness, as though there was no place to step without getting dirty. As Sherlock examined the corpse, John grew more and more uncomfortable by the grey space, eventually succumbing to his disgust by putting his hands inside his jacket.

"It feels like this whole place is going to collapse."

Sherlock didn't answer.

"What happened to the blokes that lived here?" He knew it was unlikely that Sherlock could "see" any answers, but for some reason not knowing deeply troubled him.

"Do shut up, John. I'm working."

John clicked his tongue instead of retorting. He went back to looking at the floor and noticed a circular shape that was lighter than the surrounding area, and after seeing three other similar patterns in the shape of a rectangle, he came to the conclusion that a bed had once resided where he stood.

"God. I never want anywhere I've lived to become like this." He murmured to himself, scuffing one of the circles with his shoe. He thought about the flatmates, whose home had gone to ruin with their partnership. He wondered if they had been close. "I never want this to happen to me."

"It won't." Sherlock's voice brought John back to reality.

"Oh yeah? Why?" He asked nonchalantly.

"Please John, our relationship functions much better when you don't pester me with your inane questions."

John couldn't help but laugh. "Git."

Sherlock kept his back turned so that John couldn't see his matching smile. He gestured towards the body. "I need you." He had wiped his face clean by the time his friend crouched beside him.


End file.
